The ultimate pack rat

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I began this summer with cleaning. It’s probably the first time in my life I’ve ever been part of “spring cleaning,” at least not to any voluntary degree. But was was most amazing about the whole process (and it’s still not done, so I should say what is most amazing) is rediscovering the things that I’ve kept.

I don’t generally throw things away. Not only do I live in Seattle, where the three R’s—Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle—were impressed upon me at an early age, but I seem to have a natural tendency to get attached to things. Nostalgia is my enemy.

I found a four-year-old bag of peanuts from a baseball game (unopened). I found my orange and white striped Karate belt from (probably) around 5th grade.

I also found out that I’ve kept pretty much every receipt since I turned 18.

The amazing thing is that I still had trouble convincing myself to throw things out. As time passes I associate different things with different stages of my life; certain video games, stuffed animals, or a pair of sunglasses will conjure up a set of memories that I don’t want to lose. It’s as though I’ve chosen to index my fondest memories with the scattered contents of my room, and throwing away a bookend could mean forgetting a portion of my childhood.

And I’d like to think of that as an excuse for all the things I refuse to throw away. Because looking at my shelves, it’s clear that I don’t collect what’s valuable so much as I collect what’s valuable to me.

Sometimes that’s a bag of peanuts.