Keep what reminds you of good times
Keep what reminds you of good times
I hold onto stuff.
Birthday cards, movie ticket stubs, letters, old organizers, even sea shells I've had for so long that I can't remember what beach they're from. I'm a memento hoarder.
All of these items are crammed into shoe boxes and plastic containers, taking over the closet in my office. There's no real organization, just a pile of discarded memories — some good, some bad.
I hold onto things because I don't want to forget. When I want to remember how I felt or what I was going through in my life, I open one of my memento boxes, and everything comes back to me.
I think of March and April as transitional months, a shift from our winter slumber of hot cups of tea, cozy fires and warm blankets to a spring full of renewed energy, new opportunities, new adventures, new perspectives.
Spring has always marked a time for me to clear out the clutter — literally and metaphorically — a chance to reassess, reorganize and welcome new experiences. For me, that starts with my bedroom closet.
I try to do this periodically, but I always find myself sifting through my pile of throw-a-ways, making justifications for the articles of clothing I can't live without.
This time, though, I approached my wardrobe with a mission. In a year, I'll turn 30, but my closet reflects someone who is still holding onto parts of the past and an identity that no longer fit who I have become. My gray ratty college sweatshirt? See ya. My favorite suede mini skirt that I'll never fit into again? Goodbye.
With every piece of clothing I yanked from the hanger and threw onto the bed, I felt liberated. I felt as if I was shedding every layer of the "old me" and moving forward.
Next, I tackled my dresser. For a while, I have been hanging onto several shirts that I haven't worn in probably five years or longer. Whenever I look at them, I shove them back into the drawer, as if burying the shirts would bury the unpleasant memories attached to them. But every time I opened that drawer, there they were: articles of my past, staring at me.
I hate these shirts. I never thought I could hate an inanimate object as much as I hate these shirts. I bought them during my "thrift-store" phase, which was also during my "I-just-found-out-my -boyfriend-of-two-years-has- been-cheating-on-me-the-whole-time" phase. So, now you can see why I hate these shirts so much. But then why was I still holding onto them?
For one thing, I really liked these shirts, at least once upon a time. They were great thrift-store finds, unique but so not my style anymore. Still, I kept thinking I'd wake up one day, throw open the drawer, put on the shirts, shed the old memories and make new ones. But I could never bring myself to do it.
These shirts were also the final remains of that relationship. Everything else I burned a few months after we broke up. Every letter, every photo, every card. Gone. It was New Year's Eve, and I was making new resolutions. Out with the old, in with the new.
That familiar pang to purge came over me as I sat on my bedroom floor, staring at these shirts. Maybe I was high on adrenaline from discarding a bunch of clothing from my closet or maybe I was just
finally ready to let go, but I grabbed the shirts in fistfuls and shoved them into a plastic bag. Then I curled my right hand and gave the bag a good punch. And then I laughed at myself for doing it. But I didn't care, it felt good. These shirts weren't just shirts; they were a part of my past, a past I needed to let go.
My grandmother was a saver. I didn't realize this until the day of her funeral when I sifted through her belongings with my mother and my sisters. I found so many things I didn't know she owned — earrings she never wore; classic, sleek handbags Audrey Hepburn would have envied; and a '70s flower-print change purse that I took home with me that day.
But the one thing I remember most about that day is my mother's reaction when she pulled open a dresser drawer and found that my grandmother had kept every card my mother and uncle had given her. Mother's Day cards, birthday cards, Christmas cards — they were all there. My mother sat at the edge of the bed in astonishment, tears welling up: "I can't believe she kept these all these years."
I imagined my grandmother taking these cards out from time to time and reading the personal messages my mother wrote inside. My grandmother, a widow of almost 20 years, often complained of being lonely, so maybe the cards brought her comfort.
And I guess that's why I can't part with the sentimental. Like my grandmother, I find comfort in old letters, cards, even something as simple as hotel stationery. It's something constant, something you can always revisit if you need it. Some things are definitely worth keeping.
But shirts that remind you of an ex-boyfriend? Get rid of them.
Contact Carla Kucinski Seward at 373-7319 or carla@gotriad.com
Carla Kucinski Seward/Go Triad Editor
