I threw my life away last week.

Well, not all of it but definitely a good-sized chunk. The last time that we moved, we put things off for so long that when the day finally came, we had no choice but to just throw literally everything into boxes, take it with us, and resort to going through it later. At the time, this was thought to not be a problem because we were going to have a garage for storage. We figured we’d put the boxes out in the garage and go through them when we had time.

Well, as has happened so often with this particular apartment complex/management company/owner thing, that garage never materialized. So we had 4 years worth of crap (plus some that I brought with me when I moved in with my husband in 1998) stuffed in boxes and squeezed into our tiny one bedroom apartment that had no closet or storage space to speak of. For the 3 years we lived in that apartment, we did not have use of the lovely walk-in closet in the bedroom, nor did we have the opportunity to view 2 of the 4 walls of the bedroom as they were lined with boxes. Granted most of our future problems would come from the fact that we never did go through those boxes, or most of them anyway.

When this move came along, we said things would be different. We had roughly 6 weeks notice that we would be moving and so we decided we would do it right this time. Sort though the crap and only bring what we actually wanted, what was actually necessary to have and not what would help turn us into the crazy cat couple at the end of the block during our golden years. You know, the ones who emergency services personnel have to dig out from under 20 years worth of newspapers stacked throughout the house when they die. Of course nobody knows they’re dead because they never talk to the neighbors and the only reason someone knows that something is amiss is from the smell that starts emanating from under the door 3 weeks after they die.

Well…being dicked around by your building management fq team /fq does not exactly facilitate expeditious packing. Neither of us wanted to be in a position of boxing everything up and being ready and then having everything fall through at the last minute. I think in those 6 weeks, I packed up one box and cleaned out one closet. The 25th of March hit us like a freight train and we scrambled for the next 4 days to try and get everything done. 4 years worth of crap had multiplied like so many Tribbles into 7 and a half years of crap and our bedroom closet practically attacked us when we finally opened the door to try and go through it. We did this on Tuesday night, the last night we had to be completely finished so they could come in and paint and shampoo the carpets and get the place ready for the new tenant who would be moving her stuff in on the 1st. (Yes, as stated in a previous post, I think they are idiots for wanting to have the place occupied that soon but what do I know? Aside from how to re-hang refrigerator doors that is)

It started out well enough. With my recent rapid weight loss, figuring out what clothes to throw out and what to keep was not an issue. Pretty much everything went. I had some old concert tshirts but that was about it. Then 5 white boxes made their way out of the closet and sat in the middle of the now empty and vacuumed bedroom floor, waiting to blind me with the flood of memories they would spew at me once I opened them. I had not opened these boxes in over 3 years. Before that, maybe once.

There were things in these boxes that have been with me since childhood. There were pictures I had forgotten I had taken. There were mementos of a life long since dead and buried. There were magazines and posters from the few years I spent absolutely obsessed with Def Leppard. There were letters from people that I don’t even remember anymore. There were 2 valentine’s day cards, you know…those cheap cartoon cards that you buy for your kids so they can bring them to school and exchange them in the ‘mailboxes’ that the teacher had them make the week before to hang on their desk during the Valentine’s Day class party. You would walk around the room, depositing your cards into your classmates receptacles, all the while praying that when you got back to your desk that your Valentine’s Day mailbox would not be empty. Along the way, you would sample Suzi’s cupcakes, and take one of Danny’s rice crispy treats.

But these cards were not from classmates. They were two Disney cards that my little sister had given to me when she was about 5. She’ll be 24 next month.

In 1993(ish), my mom had to travel to Mexico City quite frequently for her job. While there, she bought me many little odds and ends, street-wares if you will. Those were all in those boxes as well.

When I lived by myself in a small apartment from 1994-1997, the walls of my apartment were completely covered with Def Leppard posters. It looked like a 16 year old boy lived there. I still had all those posters, all the Metal Edge magazines, all the clippings, all the articles I had spent countless hours cutting out of magazines and newspapers and putting into scrapbooks.

All of these things went in the trash. It was easier than I thought it would be at the time but now, looking back, I’m being slightly overwhelmed by this heavy sadness that has settled on my shoulders. It may have just been junk, it may have just been papers, or a 50 cent little fabric finger doll with braids in her hair. It may have just been a 20 year old cheap Valentine’s Day card.

But these things were my life. These things filled my days with happiness. Some of these things found their way into various mailboxes over the years that would bring a light into my eyes and a smile to my lips when I saw them waiting for me. These things defined me, said who and what I was.

But those things aren’t me any more. I am more than my memories. I am more than a few old photos in a box, buried underneath a cut up copy of an old metal magazine. I am a different person today than I was 13 years ago. I like to think I’ve evolved in a positive way. I’d like to think I’m a good person and an honest person. The values I had then I still have now, except that maybe they are a little more important to me than they used to be and I don’t mind so much speaking my mind and having others not agree with me. It used to be that if I shared my thoughts or opinions on something that I would try to qualify it or negate it myself if someone didn’t sound like they agreed with me.

But somewhere, somehow, sometime in the last 10+ years, I grew up. I don’t know when it happened, or where, or how but it did just the same. Some of the things that were my whole life before are just not that important anymore. There was a time when I would have moved heaven and earth (and I did) to go to a Def Leppard concert if I knew one was coming. I know there’s one coming. They’ll be here in July, right down the street from where I work. I wouldn’t even have to go home first. Hell…I could probably even have a chance of meeting them if I was stubborn enough (which I am). But it just isn’t that important to me any more. It’s on a Tuesday, which means work the next day. It means staying up late, fighting traffic, missing my weekly poker tournament. In other words…I just really won’t miss it all that much if I don’t go.

It’s very strange. My 20’s were spent in a fog of no money, misspent youth, uncertainty, delusion and repression. Now squarely in my 30’s, I find myself much more concerned with whether or not I’ll get enough sleep tonight, whether or not my husband has a good day at work, getting home to see my kitties, making sure that I surf cnn.com at least once so I know at least a little bit about what’s going on in the world. No longer are my days fueled by trying to fit in a run to the store to buy alcohol, or going up the street to smoke with my friend.

I don’t know how it happened…and I’m a little sad to see it go…but I’m glad that it went.