This week I will make a journey into the deepest, deepy depths of the unknownest unknown:
I’m going to my storage unit.
When I moved back here over a year ago, my intentions were clear: this was just a way station, a brief layover between my latest and greatest adventures. Living at home with the folks would be nice for awhile, I figured, but it wouldn’t last long. So I stowed an apartment’s-worth of belongings in a space that would probably not even comfortably hold a Smart Car. I left out the things I thought I’d need – clothes. Shoes. Toothbrush. Glasses – and bid my things adieu. I assumed I’d be seeing them again shortly, when I loaded them back into a truck for my next move.
And see them shortly I did. When I moved back into my childhood bedroom and unpacked one or two suitcases, I realized that there was a lot of things I’d be needing that were now about 2 miles down the road.
I made twice-weekly trips back to the unit in those first few weeks, and became frustrated to the point of near-rage each time. The labels I’d so carefully applied to each box turned out to be useless. I could not find anything, and ended up tearing through eight boxes just to find, say, my computer’s mouse. I dreaded returning and stopped going altogether. I would remember something that I needed but didn’t have – earmuffs, for example – and the thought of having to go back to that musty old metal box was enough to drive my blood pressure up sixty dozen notches. Because of this, I’ve learned to live without much of the “stuff” that I previously thought I “needed” so badly.
This is great on two levels: First, it’s nice in that tree-hugging-hippie kind of way. Though I’m not currently possession-less by ANY stretch of the imagination, I’m realizing that I’ve blown much of my money of some pretty frivolous junk in my day (shampoo and conditioner?). Second, and perhaps more exciting, is that if I ever do end up moving this crap into another living space, it’s gonna be like freakin’ CHRISTMAS when I unpack. I honestly cannot remember half of what’s stowed away in there, just that it’s basically whatever I (thought I) needed to furnish an apartment for six years. Dishes? Pots and pans? Silverware? I assume it’s all there, and yet I’m starting to forget these things exist.
The purpose for my journey this week is to dig out some winter clothes. Thankfully, I’m about 97% sure where they’re located within the storage unit’s bowels. Having not seen any of these items since about March, I plan on being pleasantly surprised when that duffel bag spills open.
Merry Christmas to me!
the sloppy copy 