Catharsis
I love chucking things out. And as our flat goes on the market this week, I now have a real excuse.
Down I went into the cave, and out went the artificial Christmas tree, hastily bought five years ago when my step-daughter visited us on Christmas Eve (thinks: this Christmas we'll get a real one, yay!). Then I came across all my son's baby clothes, and, after some soul searching (must not, cannot think about more babies) out they went into the clothes donation bin in the next street. I opened a drawer and found three years worth of boy shoes, beginning with tiny summer sandals, through to little scuffed DM boots and mud splattered wellies. I found my old maternity clothes. More soul searching followed (even if we win the lottery and decide to have a third child to celebrate, I will be able to afford to buy new ones). I found various brackets, sprockets, leads and other boys trinklets belonging to hubski. I gleefully tipped them out on the street, hoping they would be scavenged before he returns from work. Hubski has issues with throwing things out, which just adds to the guilty pleasure.
I punched the air as I junked his hated brown crocodile-skin-effect desert wellies, a gift from my mother-in-law (making it all the more sinful as she probably spent half her pension on them). They had passed their six month quarantine period (meaning I had moved them into the cave and hubski had not remarked on their absence).
Every little item has a story. So I was surprised at my lack of nostalgia as the pile outside the cave grew higher. It made me realise how much I had been looking forward to turning a new page. For the last two years I've just been waiting in the blocks.
There are some things I can't throw out. I can't throw out letters. I can't throw out my daughter's first pair of shoes (especially as I only bought the second pair the day before yesterday).
Knowing that I have less stuff makes me feel lighter. I have never had colonic irrigation, but I now feel as if I understand these people a little better.
Down I went into the cave, and out went the artificial Christmas tree, hastily bought five years ago when my step-daughter visited us on Christmas Eve (thinks: this Christmas we'll get a real one, yay!). Then I came across all my son's baby clothes, and, after some soul searching (must not, cannot think about more babies) out they went into the clothes donation bin in the next street. I opened a drawer and found three years worth of boy shoes, beginning with tiny summer sandals, through to little scuffed DM boots and mud splattered wellies. I found my old maternity clothes. More soul searching followed (even if we win the lottery and decide to have a third child to celebrate, I will be able to afford to buy new ones). I found various brackets, sprockets, leads and other boys trinklets belonging to hubski. I gleefully tipped them out on the street, hoping they would be scavenged before he returns from work. Hubski has issues with throwing things out, which just adds to the guilty pleasure.
I punched the air as I junked his hated brown crocodile-skin-effect desert wellies, a gift from my mother-in-law (making it all the more sinful as she probably spent half her pension on them). They had passed their six month quarantine period (meaning I had moved them into the cave and hubski had not remarked on their absence).
Every little item has a story. So I was surprised at my lack of nostalgia as the pile outside the cave grew higher. It made me realise how much I had been looking forward to turning a new page. For the last two years I've just been waiting in the blocks.
There are some things I can't throw out. I can't throw out letters. I can't throw out my daughter's first pair of shoes (especially as I only bought the second pair the day before yesterday).
Knowing that I have less stuff makes me feel lighter. I have never had colonic irrigation, but I now feel as if I understand these people a little better.
posted by francesca tereshkova | 1:29 PM
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