I have seven days until I move. A by “move,” I mean drift into accommodation oblivion. I’ve decided to opt out of immediately getting an apartment, storing most of my stuff at my mom’s house, and living life out of a suitcase in a triangle of cities across Eastern North America. Besides a variety of reasons, I thought it might liberate me of attachments to material possessions. But now I’m getting cold feet. The past few days have been a back and forth of social goodbyes, prepping for the doom that might be my thesis defense (48 hours away, and I haven’t prepared anything), and trying to figure out how to pack for my decided life of a hobodom. This was my closet area this morning:
I still own clothes I bought when I was 14. And this is a trend across all my belongings, creating a serious existential crisis for me in the final days of packing. For example, do I throw out the “Free Winona” t-shirt that hasn’t fit me since “Mr. Deeds” came out? Or what about my ten Nine Inch Nails t-shirts, all of which go down to my knees and permanently smell like CK One? The answer is obviously yes, but I don’t like it.
I collect clothes, and usually not-at-all expensive ones. I go to Value Village or Goodwill at least once a month, filling a cart and paying $25 for it. And when t-shirts cost $1, its so easy to find this state of denial in terms of whether I’d ever actually wear them. As a result, I found a really embarrassing number last week when I did a guilt-inducing head count. And I doubt I’ve worn half of them more than once.
So now I am forced to pack two suitcases with clothes I’d like to wear on a regular basis, and the rest go to either Goodwill or my mom’s basement. Tonight’s first haul to Goodwill was 8 garbage bags full, so I am on my way. But its not as liberating as I thought it would be.