Nothing marks the end of an era like giving away all your alcohol to someone half your age.
My friend, Maria - a young version of me, only smarter and better looking - came by tonight to see what trinkets of my past might enhance her future. The giant liter bottles of rum, gin, vodka, tequila and vermouth were dusty testaments to a raucous life now past and Maria was only too happy to carry on the debauchery in my honor. I reasoned, why drag all that booze across country to hang out with Man, who does not drink? Pointless.
As I encouraged her to take the purple wig, still dusty from various Burning Man escapades, I was acutely aware of how much fun I'd had during my San Francisco years. My bank account, my hat collection and the giant purple feather headdress exist as testaments that I spared no expense when it came to celebrating . . . um, whatever was demanding to be celebrated. Living above ground has always been reason enough and that gleeful gratitude will certainly continue on an even deeper level in Denver.
Meanwhile, the pondering of Stuff will be a recurring theme in my new life and not just during this transition. Y'see, Man does not do Stuff; he generally eschews the gathering and acquiring of Things. By his own account, he owns a laptop, three bicycles and some clothes. No furniture - he sleeps on plywood over milk crates. Thus, he has earned a nickname among my friends, "Monk Man" or lately, just "Monk."
I must crave some education in this area because I find this philosophy very appealing. As I pack up all my crap, I've also become begrudgingly envious. One Sunday after going through boxes and boxes of faded old photo albums from the 80s, I asked Man when he would start packing his own things for his move from Grand Junction to Denver: "I'll probably start packing an hour or so before I leave."
Hmph. I can only hope to pick up a few pointers from him while at the same time, avoid splinters.