Because we are moving offices this week, I was forced to pack up my professional life and quickly came to realize I have too much shit. Of course, this is an excellent practice run for when The Real Move comes in February but on a much smaller scale. After several days of this nasty job, I declare myself a die-hard hoarder of sentiment, primarily in paper form. I am, it seems, my mother's daughter.
For example, I insist on keeping the business card of my friend, Jack - who died much too soon - in my Rolodex. If my surly pals, Mark and Pete, cc me on a particularly grumpy exchange, I cannot resist printing it out and stowing it in my 'Curmudgeons I Love' file. Invites to corporate parties from long ago, name tags that made me sound important (my favorite: "Heather Clisby, The New York Times") and clever comic strips that captured a brief moment in history - I've got this crap in endless stacks. What does it matter? What am I keeping it for? How often will I go back and actually find it relevant? Especially now that Google is here?
I rationalize it the way I do when I miss a new episode of 'The Simpsons.' My final years will most likely be spent infirm and inactive. Plenty of time to reminisce through old letters and catch up on DVD box sets, seasons 1-27 . . . right? And then?
And then, trapped in the old folks home, I'll have to bribe a corrupt nurse to buy marshmallows, sweep it all in a big pile and light it ablaze. All those humorous observations and heartfelt sentiments will go up without hesitation, in a violent conflagration of evidence that I was ever here at all.