FANTA-down-SIZING

A cool breeze flows through the open window. It wafts throughout the interior of the room as sultry rhythms make love to my ears. The seductive setting brings to light all the years and years of accumulated memories; provocative, familiar and abundant. Taking stock of the excess mementos, I tenderly put aside a few favored items and then…

… swiftly and affirmatively toss item after item out the window and onto the sloping chute leaning against the sill; en route to the beckoning dumpster below. I am beside myself with joy and blissfully satisfied.

Aaahhhh – what a delightful…

DREAM.

It’s a fool’s paradise, this dream, a play of wishful thinking and a sensual state of slumber. This is what my “adult” fantasies have been reduced to. A beckoning dumpster.

My amassing of memories seems insurmountable. Does impressive sound more acceptable?

After my mother’s passing her treasured thingamabobs found their way into my filled to overflowing cabinets. My save-everything-mom, who in turn squirreled away the by-products of her mother and mother-in-law are now mine. Stowed away for my children? Come and get it!

And although some items have been personally handpicked and earmarked by those children referenced above… they are surprisingly unsurprisingly still housed in my home.

Hoping for a taker I periodically flaunt evidence of all these riches. “Could be valuable”, I say with a sing-songy voice.

On one hand those children have nowhere to put this that or the other thing. So they say. On the other hand it seems they are all for the taking after a quick visit to my closet and a nonchalant inquiry as to the still-wear-it-ness status of my clothing. Take it, take it I say.

I’ve heard through the grapevine that our offspring will not want most of, or any of, our stuff. Being the nostalgic saver that I am, I admit to being a bit misty-eyed at that conclusion. So what’s a dewy-eyed, sentimental, pack rat supposed to do?

I mean, surely they’ll want my fifty+ boxes of photos, my grandma’s tea set and my stash of love letters!

MAYBE I SHOULD START REFERRING TO ALL THE STUFF AS PROLIFIC CRAP RATHER THAN SENTIMENTAL RICHES.

My doing-away-with actions are infrequent; more like one of these fine days. I confess to opening closet doors, cabinets and drawers only to peer inside, gently close and move on to my happy place of murder mysteries and true crime whodunnits. Spoiler alert: THE HUSBAND DID IT.

Though a copious maker of lists, and would appear quite organized, my continued effort to procrastinate has evolved into complete hoarding mode. And weirdly, past edits appear to rematerialize. As if by magic. Who is the conjurer of the rematerializing? Oh yeah, me.

Overly sentimental affection for my children’s memorabilia makes me the self-appointed custodian of it all. The official keeper of memories. And I am just about ready to hand in my notice.

The collection of both daughters’ artwork is VAST – all significant, all lovingly created by little hands and ALL TAKING OVER MY SPACE. The forgotten and sadly forgettable are among the valued gems and the meaningful are clearly spiraling into clutter. Although these delightfully scribbled treasures, filling many boxes, are optimistic containers of imaginings… it’s time to edit. Weeping.

Oh, and there are costumes aplenty. Sized toddler – adult:

Looking to take a trip down the yellow brick road? Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion have you covered.

A bit of glam? Cinderella, Rapunzel and a couple of brides await.

A fan of the animal kingdom? There’s a kitty or three, a dragon and a life-size beanie baby puppy.

Seeking a French themed outfit? Got a hankering to be a cowboy? A witch, a ballerina or Cousin “It”? A decade-themed soiree?

Accessories and wigs. Done. And DONE.

Cut to the embarrassing numbers of stuffed animals, beanie babies, games, baby dolls, doll beds, doll clothes, doll accessories, Lego castle, school papers, spelling tests, markers, crayons, paint, construction paper, glue sticks, glitter and googly eyes… all filling bursting at the seams boxes and precariously organized shelving. Don’t judge. Bawling.

Am I saving for future grandchildren? Wailing.

Once upon a time my mom firmly ushered me to the basement where boxes of my own mementos lay in waiting. Consolidating into one manageable container was the order of the day. I tried offering compensation so that my personal effects would remain right where they were. To no avail.

My lovingly maintained keepsakes included a carburetor and pair of dingo boots (souvenir of old boyfriend), a half knitted sweater, popsicle sticks labeled with date and location, letters, postcards, gum wrapper chains… you get the idea. It was a meticulous and delicate operation. Lots of oh-my-god, no way and why did I keep this to go through.

Although it took multiple attempts to pare the stuff down, that box (now parked on a shelf in my closet) is eagerly anticipating a new resting spot. In someone else’s closet. First I must stop to consider what nonsense is contained in that box. And down the rabbit hole I will go.

As for my daughters… a single box for each?

Truth be told, I probably care more about the safeguarded clutter than they do. ALL OUR collectively collected stuff triggers my flight–not–fix response. I entertain thoughts of picking up, moving on and only taking a few (like hardly any) treasured items. The reality? I CAN’T DO IT!!!

I guess that means a continuation of my efforts to ignore, procrastinate and intently listen to foul play podcasts.

And in the meantime, I’ll look forward to more tantalizing episodes of what I like to call… THE DESIROUS DAMSEL AND HER BECKONING DUMPSTER.

And that’ll have to do – for now.

~image from author’s personal collection (just a hint of what’s there)