03.30.01
Sometimes I regret that I am not the sort of person that has a shoebox full of memories in the furthest recesses of my closet. You know, the box filled with the remnants of broken hearts, that you shuffle around from house to house without ever really opening it up and taking inventory.
I have no special box filled with mementos, cards and letters from past relationships gone horribly awry, and believe me that I have had enough of those to fill a U-haul with sad memories.
I guess that I never felt the need to stow away the things that hurt me the most. I carry the scars on my psyche to remember the pain, and the joy in my soul to remember the happiness. I prefer to wear the sweater, to dress up in the jeweled tiara, to eat with the chopsticks, to read the books, and to store my unmentionables in the brightly-colored paper hat box. I really don't have a lot of tangible goods to remember relationships past beyond a card here, a pressed flower there, but no love letters or missives of heartfelt desire and longing -- most certainly not enough to merit hoarding them away.
I never was the sort to take a lot of pictures of people either. I have only a couple of pictures somewhere of a boyfriend or two, and they don't bring me pain at all. They show a happy time that I felt good about, and I don't look at them much anyways.
Is that normal? Or are the hoarders the odd ones?
I guess it doesn't really matter. It just means less stuff for a packrat like me to have socked away in a corner.
