I’m finally feeling ready to re-enter the blog universe, although taking a couple of weeks to relish in the post-nup bliss has been really wonderful. Ben and I have been insanely busy since our return from all of the festivities, which I guess is to be expected after 3 weeks away. I’m talking a pile of mail up to my collarbone, a work to-do list that I can’t even begin to discuss without breaking out in hives and a deep summer-cleaning for the casa that has never been more necessary. We’ve been receiving packages every day since our return and, naturally, have become quite fond of our Fed-Ex and UPS peeps. However, with a mere 1200 sq ft, there isn’t much room to grow, so we’ve established a new rule: something new in = something old out.
Although living in South Beach is awesome with our nightly ocean swims with the dogs after work, my beach walks with one of my besties, Linds, and being located within walking distance of oodles of faboosh restaurants and hangouts, all of this action = mucho congestion and unfortunately, South Beach’s living spaces have not been spared. After all, they have to create more space for all of the places/things that attract tourists from all over the world to our shores, so apartments are progressively getting smaller and smaller. It’s all good, though, because we are constantly being forced to re-evaluate the things that we keep around and whether or not we really need them. This results in at least 2 Goodwill drop-offs every month – although lately, we’re talking at least 5 or 6. No joke.
So yes … this has forced me to ask myself: Am I really ever gonna rollerblade on those skates I bought off of Ebay? Meh, the thought was nice. And while we’re at it, Ben is probably never going to don those masks he made out of paper-mache while he was in one of his theatre classes at Wesleyan – yep, we’re talking about the hard lessons.
I must admit, though, I am THE WORST when it comes to getting rid of things. I feel some sort of strange, emotional attachment to my belongings. I find myself saying:
"Oh gosh, I can't give these away ... I bought these (horrid, neon-orange) slippers while in Vejer, Spain," even though there is a hole the size of San Fransisco in one of the soles and their wide, flat bases force me to walk like Sasquatch. Nope, these puppies are not (and never were) fit for public consumption.
Living here has given me two options: become a hoarder or let. It. Go. I wish I had a basement or a junk closet where I could shove all of the stuff that I’m not quite ready to get rid of but know that I’ll probably never use. I’ve even talked myself into hanging onto fabulously hideous sequence tops that I donned circa ’98 thinking that I may need them someday, if nothing else, then for a theme-party, a la Fashion Reject or Disco Barbie.
Moving in with the Bean two years ago created even more of a need to clean out the closets – there’s not much space to go around as it is and when you’re sharing a nook with another cranny, you really have to get creative.
And as I write this, I’m staring at a pile of engagement and wedding greeting cards that have been given to us over the past year – a stack that I can’t even begin to tackle or throw away. Aside from the cards with heartfelt, personal notes inside, I can’t imagine that I’ll ever need to refer to the “Congrats on Your Engagement Card” with a simple “Love, Jane and John Doe” inscribed on the inside. Don’t get me wrong, the card was sweet – but while most people can read the card, smile and toss – I have to hold onto it, so much so that it creates an unconquerable stack in my living room that is collecting dust as we speak.
Ah … collecting dust. And just when I’ve said that we can’t collect anything else.
