#496

The String Too Short to Save

I hope that our recent move will remain "the hardest move of our lives." In other words, I cannot conceive of a future move any harder than this one has been. The three days spent physically moving were horrendous, as they always are, but what has surprised me the most is just how un-fun the un-packing has been. I can see two reasons for this: 1) I promptly came down with two infections in the past week, one necessitating some serious head-scratching about how to address, and both of which have sapped my energy and will to live big time; and 2) I'm combining three households by myself (since Tom is in the home-stretch of dissertation writing/defending) - my house, Tom's house, and "our married house" (aka the wedding gifts). We have a wonderfully large apartment by NYC standards, but one that also comes with a surfeit of closet space. Tom and I have both moved from large apartments, so this double down-sizing is painful. Of course I recognize how bratty my complaints seem (and are), but hey, it's my website.

Tom's in the library right now, so I have taken the liberty of sorting his clothes and placing them nicely in the closet. If I were really an angel, I'd iron a few of his shirts for the week ahead so there's one less thing for him to worry about before the big "D" (= thesis defense) on Wednesday. It is a fraught task, sorting someone else's earthly possessions, because it is so hard not to judge them. I have spent more than a few minutes amused and horrified by Tom's number of pants and socks, only to chide myself when I consider the number of formal dresses and tights (and shoes) I own. I complain about Tom's speaker collection, he complains about my craft supplies and holiday decorations (only one 10 gal. Sterilite container each!). I question Tom's toiletries, he points to my nail polish assortment. The answer is to down-size, but there is just so much guilt in asking another person to throw their things out. It's easier to purge your own stuff, and yet, something resentful that way comes.

My twisted reveries led me to my source of sagely advice...my father. (Mom didn't pick up the phone.) I love my parents' experience because it feels so honest and true, so "folk" if you will. Their words and thoughts feel imbued by generations of people who came before them (even if they might not be), as opposed to the neo-common sense readily available to my Googling fingertips. My father, in meditating on my conundrum of earthly delights, mentioned a line he once read about a New England writer whose father kept jars of odds and ends, including one labeled "string too short to save." Oh, how I love the poignancy so! Where does this drive to own and save come from? As my father pointed out with wonder, he now owns seven pairs of shoes. (Let's not even tally my stash...) He used to own one, he continued, because that's all his parents could afford. And I am sure he was proud of that pair.

Why is it okay for some people to have closets the size of my apartment? And why can I not afford one? Would I be happier with all of that space? Or emptier inside?