One year ago, my husband and I put our condo on the market. This was in preparation for our first grown-up, cross-country, non-white trash move, where we plan to pack our stuff into boxes and put it in a truck, instead of dragging whatever doesn’t fit into the back of a van down to the curb and then driving away.
Attempting to sell your home is an uncomfortable process, not just due to the fact that no one wants to buy a condo in a market where you can buy a four-bedroom house for the same cost as filling the tank of an SUV, but also because you have to stage it. Staging your home pretty much means making it look like anyone (meaning “not you”) could be living there. It’s a lot of painting things beige, hiding stuff in decorative baskets and removing any Jesus figurines with eyes that follow people that you may or may not have hanging above your door.
So what do you with all of that stuff that you’ve had to remove in order to make your home look spacious and clean? You could choose to give it to Goodwill or have a garage sale. Or, if you’re me in 2010, you decide that you can’t part with the bookcase you will forget you own in one year and you put it all into storage.
Since the move is rapidly approaching, I went back to the storage unit yesterday to open this terrible time capsule and retrieve the incredibly stupid stuff I’ve saved all this time. Here are the highlights:
Clothes that were too small one year ago
I guess I had a lot of hope for my strict regimen of working out once or twice every six months, but it did not work out as planned.
Why did I keep these? When did I keep these? Did I pack up this unit in 1992? I guess maybe I got technology and fashion mixed up and thought that VCRs would come back in vogue, like jeggings. Trend prediction fail.
Unopened box of plastic spoons
I think 2010 me was just messing with 2011 me at this point. Good one, past self, I am totally stumped.
Two copies of The Village
I want to explain myself here. Neither my husband nor I have ever purchased The Village. One was given to my husband along with a pile of other bootleg movies. And the other…appeared one day, as though put there by a mean-spirited ghost that only a creepy little boy could see. We don’t know how we came to have two copies of this movie, but I realize that does not excuse the fact that in packing up our belongings, I could not part with either copy of a movie I don’t like.
Box of random cords
I have had this random box of cords since I was, I’m guessing, twelve. I bet there’s an Atari controller somewhere in that mass. I can’t seem to throw them away, since I’m convinced that there’s cords in there that I’ll need as soon as I toss them. So I lug them around. And even as I type this, deep down, I know that box is going to make it onto the moving truck.
I mean, after all, Ataris could always come back. And you can never be too prepared.