I started packing up my room last night. It started as packing for my weekend adventure, but that lasted for about three items, and then I got sucked into that oddly addicting zone that one enters when sifting through memories of the past.
I like that photo, but I guess it's kind of deceiving. I don't mean to suggest that I spent all evening wearing my sad-pants. On the contrary, I quite enjoyed the walk down memory lane. But since I try (as much as possible) to live in the present, acknowledging the past is kind of like jumping in the ocean; even though it's fun, it can still be jarring.
I found my old fraternity paddles, which made me miss chapter meeting on Sundays; I found old cards from family and friends, which made me miss those I see on rare occasions ; and I found my dildo in a Crown Royal bag, which made me miss dorm room sex. A lot.
Moving is weird like that. It's not just the physical act of transporting your belongings. It's seeing what you hold on to and what you've finally made peace with letting go, and of course that reaches far beyond what you can place in a box . This will be my tenth move in seven years, so I have to remember that even though there's always trepidation when the sorting begins, I'm still alive and still happy and in possession of incredible riches regardless of cash value.
Of course, now I'm still not packed for this weekend. Eff. But I'm off in an hour, spending the afternoon cruising through my old friend The Central Valley, then spending three days in Napa and San Francisco. With trusty camera in hand, I hope to make more memories worthy of a spot on the shelf, an ever-present reminder of how damn fortunate I really am.
Happy Thursday friends. May your bracket picks prove wise.