When you move a lot, like we do, the moment in which you have to take everything from your house and pack it up is both terrifying and a release. I love emptying my shelves, drawers and closets, looking at what I have, trying things on again, finding stuff that I had completely forgotten but that suddenly I absolutely love and is my favourite thing ever.
Unfortunately, as some of you know, I am a budding hoarder and have a tough time throwing things away. Especially if they’re mine. I’m not sure why, but when I buy a turquoise tshirt to replace the one that I’ve had for seven years and is, in its best patches, threadbare, the hoarder part of me crosses his arms (yes, he’s a little old man), lowers his chin and starts mumbling how it could always be useful, the colour was so nice, it doesn’t occupy that much space.
And clothes aren’t the worst. The absolute most horrific thing is when I see a souvenir, pronounced *suv-neer*. Something I picked up during a trip, that I didn’t know I had, and suddenly I remember where I got it, get washed over by memories and know that its place is in the trash. It’s the doublethink fest. The ticket to the louvre. The shell I got from that beach. The little piece of wood I found on the walk with those people. The string she said would bring good luck for ever and ever. The leaf from the market. That broken bracelet. The only bead I found after my favourite necklace ever broke.
Now that is a tragedy.
Some things never get thrown. Some, in a fit of rage, get tossed in a large black bag and taken to the bin immediately before I open the bag and fish them out again. Others get the “either/or” treatment: I make myself decide between the little plastic angry birds head or the feather.
And when we arrive in our new city, country, house, I see that by choosing and throwing I managed to reduce the number of boxes and what’s left is really what I wanted to keep, and I’m quite proud of myself. And I have more space to showcase my favourite things ever.