I guess I didn't mention it in much (any?) detail here, but I'll be moving pretty soon. It's not a huge move -- just to the next neighborhood in Brooklyn to chillax with poisonivory
-- but I still have two years worth of crap to pack up and haul 36 blocks away, and that's no fun.
Come to think of it, this is the longest I've lived in one place since 2006. Now I'm kind of sad.
But anyway, now I'm packing. Packing sucks. It's also going slowly, because most of my packing will consist of books and book-sized things, and I'm out of small boxes. So what I mostly did tonight was reorganize older boxes that, um, I never unpacked last time and throw away stuff I don't need.
To some extent, I love the getting rid of stuff part of moving, because it's kind of a relief to lighten the load and free up space. But it's also agonizing for me, because I don't part with things easily. One thing is that I have a tendency to anthropomorphize inanimate objects, which makes tossing out a pair of old jeans that don't fit tantamount to betrayal. I think of all the good times those jeans and I have had, and how heartbroken it must be to be donated to charity, and blah blah I know I'm ridiculous.
Another, more recent problem is parting with things related at all to my dad. I agonized over a shirt he gave me several years ago -- one I didn't even remember owning until I found it under a pile of dirty laundry. I went back and forth on it a number of times; I think I finally forced it into the charity pile. I also found the one shirt of his I kept when I moved East and realized it still smells like his bedroom; I hope it always does.
But anyway, I'm moving at a snail's pace, but I'm trying. I should probably watch the first season of Hoarders
again to get me in a MUST THROW STUFF AWAY panic mode.