The art of saving
I am fully aware that I have a hard time throwing things away. My eyes are open. And they're seeing a lot of junk.
I'm not a Hoarder, but I'm a Saver. It's not quite as bad. It's a couple of rungs beneath Hoarder, with Stasher holding the spot between.
Some of the stuff I save is meaningless. For instance, a label with washing instructions, on which I'd forgotten to note a description of the item to which it pertains, and so I don't even know to what this belongs, making me wonder which item of clothing it is, and then becoming anxious that I'm going to ruin something. I open the door to the armoire where my sweaters reside, and I stare at them. My brow is furrowed. I know I'm letting them down. At least three of them, because I found three of these labels. Oh fuck.
There are extra buttons, bookmarks, and some tiny safety pins. Isn't one tiny safety pin enough? Maybe two? And when's the last time I even needed a tiny safey pin? I can't remember. Third grade?
(Okay, I just threw out five safety pins. I have four left. Why am I keeping four? I don't know.)
There are things that I've saved which are wonderful. Old photos, videos, tapes, a folder full of funny things the kids have said over the years. I mean, really, besides this type of stuff, what's worth saving?
Not cables or a/c adaptors to electronics I no longer own or can't even remember, blank Hi-8 videotapes, samples of lotion in little, tiny packets that have been sitting on my desk for over a year, a buisness card with just a phone number and a name I don't recongnize on it, business cards from people I don't like. I mean, what is the point?
And, as much as I am a saver, I am nothing - NOTHING - compared to my mother. And, my father, too, by the way. I will tell you about that next time I write. It is staggering. Believe me.