Carrying On, Movin' Out

I’m on the road again, a mere three days since my last trip. And, sitting again, for the third time in Philadelphia International’s F concourse in a week, it is strikingly clear why I picked up this ‘life in transit’ theme for a blog in the first place. It’s early morning—7:50 to be exact—and somehow, magically, Sbarro and the entire food court already smell like stale pizza, the same pallid display of bread and grease, it appears from three nights ago.

Today is a work trip, but I’ve given in and given up on work clothing. When I packed up for summer, I put some of them in my luggage and others, most actually, went in to a storage unit. My one attempt to look at said storage unit has resulted in me opening the door, taking note of the 70 or so boxes, a couch, bed, nightstands, desks, tables, and a Knoll chair (can’t forget that—my favorite! Ask me, sometime about how I used to stare at this thing in the windows outside the Merchandise Mart and how I miserly saved to splurge on this mid-century velvet chair, even when I had no room to walk around it.) I stare at my contents—I fought and saved for this stuff—and I am but powerless and utterly confused. I walked out of my storage unit with two mahogany hangers from Nordstrom and a personal steamer. Somewhere, it that very well assembled game of Jenga-Possessions was all the clean clothes I could want. But given the prospects of rifling through these boxes, I’d rather not want.

I’m not alone—The New York Times recently ran a story in the Sunday Magazine chronicling the storage industry. Not surprisingly, Americans have and hold on to, a lot of crap. While that’s dipped ever so slightly since the financial apocalypse last fall, there is still, a heavily entrenched sense of wealth measured in America by the amount of stuff we hoard. (I wonder if I really need a dinner service for 20 after all.) Given my short stint of a couple months of living with less—no waffle makers, no sandwich presses, and a vastly smaller selection of haberdashery—I am inspired to trim the fat and get rid of all that extra junk weighing me down.

It is the kind of change I’m finally ready to make. The big, meaningful changes that help us appreciate there is a difference between wealth and happiness. And that holding on to play and child-like imagination does not demand a childish sense of materialism. I make no pretenses that purging will be easy—it won’t be, and I can cleverly craft a narrative for each julep cup, each keyboard, and every vase in there. I was that consumer who was hopeful each piece said something about me—as if my personal ethos could be commoditized in the aggregation of junk.

So, one of these days when the travel cools (if only for a moment), we’ll head to the bin. Look out for me as I wax nostalgic and get ready to say goodbye to that Family Ties board game and every boarding pass from 2006. Now, 2007--well, that's another story...