So I'm moving. Again. And you would think that after all these moves (this is the... hold on while I add things up on my fingers... 18th move) I would have learned the fine art of Not Keeping Stuff. I have not.
I suppose the sort of Stuff one accumulates is a direct window into your psyche (sort of like the snail death thing, but with less mucus). I would like to say that I am the sort of person who accumulates small objects d'art, very tasteful and extremely expensive. Maybe I am that kind of person, I've just never had the budget to find out. But right now I cannot escape the sad truth (because the evidence is all too clear in front of me) that I am the sort of person who ends up with:
Boxes and boxes of books. Even after I've gotten rid of 12 boxes in the last move, there are still boxes more. I blame the family tradition for this one.
Lots of office supplies. Harks back to shopping for school supplies and those boxes of 64 sharp pristine crayons. I was never allowed to get the 64 crayon box, but as an adult I realize (looking at my several dozen unused gel pens) that I would not have been able to bear spoiling their crayonny perfection and they would never have been taken out of the box anyway. But I would have liked to look at them.
Thousands of identical white socks. Because I have three kids who never EVER remember to put both socks in the dirty clothes hamper I therefore refuse to buy them anything that requires matching. I used to tell Kirk that when we made our fortune I was going to hire a sock boy named Hans whose entire purpose in life was going to be washing and folding socks.
So that's the sum total of my worldly goods. But at least if the world comes to an end tomorrow we'll all have warm feet, something with which to write a touching final message, and a darn good book to read.