I cleared out the kitchen cabinets: old spatula? Don't need it. Five chip clips? Trash. Empty trash bag boxes? Uh, should have been thrown out last September. I dragged the junk out of my closets: old hat I haven't put on my head in 17 months? Goodbye. Pair of jeans that likely won't fit over one thigh anymore? Gone, with disgust. Stuffed animals? Eh, sorry.
I found random junk. Paraphernalia I've collected over the past 12 months. A Barbie ring from birthday cupcakes, a plastic shot glass, magazines, burnt-out candles. All gone. Magazine pull-outs of Jake Gyllenhaal that have been taped to the wall all year? Sigh. In the trash.
You should have seen the refrigerator. Moldy Kool-Aid. Yes, moldy. Three-month old spaghetti. A half-empty, two-liter gallon of Seagram's Raspberry Gingerale that Beth and I used to make mixed drinks. In January. Gone, gone, and gross.
So I'm feeling pretty good about ridding myself of this crap. I'm feel lighter. And then I found it - The Box. The Box commemorating a failed relationship. The Box that contains every detail of every minute of a year-and-a-half of my life - that's now gone, never to be gotten back. The pictures, the notes, the cards, the stuffed animal, the mementos. Oh, and then that one time he got drunk and slept with a slut. Oh yeah, that.
Ha, The Box? In. The. Trash. Phew, it felt good. That purge was a year in the making.
So I'm ready now. I'm ready to start packing up the good and hauling it to a new home, where it'll likely become the new trash next time around.
Part of it feels wasteful. Just tossing out life's mementos after having held onto them so long. But I spend a lot of my life on the binge. Soaking up proof of every moment and item and memory because it feels so good to be full. I stash it all away until my closets and life are bursting at the seams.
But then after a while I kind of want to throw up. So, it's time to purge.