Moving Blues

Over the last three weeks, my apartment slowly transformed to its current condition. It bears great resemblance to a battlefield or an area hit by a natural calamity. The sad truth is that this 700+ sq ft area has indeed endured both in a very short while; the cause of both being my half-hearted attempts to pack and move out. The battle was between me and the boxes and the umpteen pieces of material junk that refused to sit in the boxes no matter how hard I tried to force them in with my hands, heavier objects and rolls of packing tape. Likewise, the origin of the natural calamity lies in my packing skills or the lack of thereof.
In the last four years, I have moved around 12 times and lived in five towns (if you can call some of those locations that), not counting the number of temporary move-ins with my parents. Such continuous and quick change, after living in the same house for over 18 years, going to the same school for 16 years, and jumping on the same neighbor’s terrace for a similar period of time, is a tad much for me. Thus, I have grown to hate the act of moving though it represents only a short, transitory path that leads to new and enriching experiences (sometimes). One would expect me to have become wiser due to increasing age and experience and reduced the amount of “crap” I own. Unfortunately, neither had had an effect on me. I blissfully fostered the illusion that I play the dual roles of a corporate professional (read intern) and a student. Since I had to support both roles while putting myself through school, I firmly believed I couldn’t afford to throw and re-buy things. Obviously, this was completely false because I accumulated more material junk every time the role-switching occurred. Further, instead of using my moving allowance for its intended purpose, I would acquire more things in the form of clothes, shoes, electronics, etc. The first couple of times, I went through this ritual, I badgered my parents and wailed to them trying to earn some pity points. Soon, they grew accustomed to my doleful expression and tear-filled eyes and stopped giving me the much-needed attention. Instead, my mom would reprimand me on cutting down on my possessions and my dad just labeled the exercise an opportunity cost for a better end.
And so here I am in the same situation, yet again after about nine months, the longest time I have had the same residential address in four years. For the same reason, I have accumulated a lot more junk this time. As I rummaged through my belongings, I found
1. Crumpled stained notes I had passed around during classes. They still make me giggle
2. Old wine bottles with dates, the company I wined with and what made that day so momentous
3. Single earrings. I am sure I swore to God that I would never crash at my friends’ place and lose one from another pair. And yet I was stuck with a bunch of them.
4. Pictures—the only memories I have of nights I will never remember.
5. Post-it notes with lists of everything imaginable, some of which I never managed to accomplish simply because I found the list three months too late—now.
6. Miscellaneous jewelry—they held great significance at some point in time. Into the trash can they go
7. CDs of the Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears. They suffered the same fate as the formerly significant jewelry. Obsolete technology and passé music go straight to the bin.
8. Textbooks that spewed esoteric concepts, some of which I still fail to grasp. I decided that I didn’t need another reminder of my low IQ and so they went to a nondescript box.
9. Jigsaw puzzles—the somewhat intellectual vice I had developed as a result of boring, jobless and lonely nights. I saw several more of those nights in my future.
10. Tons of clothes and shoes in every size, shape and material imaginable. Some of them I would never fit into again and yet others I would never dream of wearing. They signified the dynamic fashion industry and my ever-improving impeccable taste. Truly, I had perfected perfection with respect to fashion.
11. Greeting cards, a scrapbook and personal diaries. They reduced me to a laughing girl at some moments and a wailing baby at others. In a matter of moments, I managed to relive emotions that took a lifetime to achieve—narcissism, love, loathing, and adulation.
..And then some. In just a few weeks, I had managed to pack up the material remains of my 23 yearlong life, in a few boxes. I stood around my room and looked at what had been home to me for 8 months. It definitely lacked character without those pictures, puzzles, handbags, posters and the holes I had drilled while trying to put up shelves. Tedious as it had been, I realized I had made the right choice. I wasn’t materialistic. Those bursting boxes held precious moments. Granted, some of its contents were junk. I probably would never glance at them until the next time I moved. Perhaps, I would go through the exercise two times over before they caught my attention again (This would explain the random boxes of junk I had to sort through. I had lugged them around since my Jester days, clueless about the contents of each). Maybe, I will never look at them—thanks to the packing and moving facilities that I will be entitled to as a citizen of corporate America. They are still worth it. Even if I never would cast a glance at some of them, they still tell a story about me. Just the feeling of having something from a long time ago is worth the effort of lifting, lugging, unpacking and repacking. Moreover, the throwing away part of the exercise is therapeutic as it is purgatory. It makes me feel like I have grown wiser from my many experiences and that I am ready for a fresh start. After all, objects in the rearview mirror appear smaller, eh?

PS: I have been meaning to publish this for eight months