I’m in the process of moving from one town to another. This is a relief. The move cuts my expenses in half. Of course this means I’m forced to move all my stuff.
Just what is this “stuff” I speak about? Here’s the short list:
Enough shoes to start my own Payless store. Not that I ever wear them. They’re just pretty.
At least twenty jackets: sweater jackets, winter jackets, windbreakers. You think I exaggerate? Nope, they could float a battleship. I think they fornicated in that dark closet and made little wool babies that grew to adulthood on the wire hangers.
Plastic table cloths. Why? I never eat at the table. (I think the jackets lured them in.)
Paid receipts and bills from the beginning of time.
Old curtain rods.
Wrapping paper with only a few sheets left on the roll. And gift bags.
Dishes! Holy cow. It’s just me and the cat. Why do I need a four-piece set of three different designs of dishes? I had a cowboy set, a county deer set, and a pretty set. Glasses up the wazoo. And we won’t even speak about my collection of coffee cups.
Wall pictures: cowboys, horses, wizards, Indians, acrylic paintings, collages. Lions, tigers, and bears, oh my! (Literally)
I’m not a hoarder. There are no trails that weave around clutter in my house. But.
I am sentimental.
Aye! And there be the rub.
There is no reason to keep my report cards from High School. Half the teachers I don’t even remember. It’s not like I’d have to prove I made B’s in Biology. (Yeah, buddy, butchering that frog went a long way in securing a job in finance.)
Daddy’s brown and white jacket that smelled of Old Spice. The after-shave has long faded. And I don’t need to bury my nose in cloth arm-pit to remember Daddy.
A piece of white fur from my long departed, beloved Casper Cat. (Me thinks I’m flirting with being sentimental and down-right creepy.)
Nick-knacks from the Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria plus The Mayflower, up to modern day Las Vegas and everywhere in between.
Notebooks, note pads, and journals. I love journals. Never write in them. Like the shoes, they’re pretty to look at.
Pencils and pens. (Yet I can never find one when I need it.)
And just like my collection of coffee cups, we will not discuss my books. Never mind I could stock a small library, we will not talk about them.
This moving experience brings home the fact that there is a fine line between being sentimental and practical.
Which is better?
Why ask me? It’s plain to see I don’t know.
I keep cat fur for Pete’s sake.