In my 20s, I moved from a Midtown studio starter apartment as a single gal into a one bedroom with my then boyfriend. I sold most of my high-end IKEA furniture and my Jennifer Convertibles floral couch to a few neighbors in my building for pennies on the dollar. With that wad of singles tucked firmly into my wallet, my life boiled down to just eleven boxes.
I wasn’t the type to store a bunch of stuff at my parents’ house in some spare bedroom closet, crawl space or basement. All my worldly possessions were with me. Every saved report card, picture, and graduation tassel. Every pair of shoes, belt and CD I had amassed, both stolen and paid for were coming with. (Ha! To get the joke see my earlier post, The Squeeze from July 21st.) My critical paperwork of passport, tax returns, pay stubs, and those silly Remember Cards I’d stocked up on when I worked at Huge Ad (perfect for list making)– all of it fit into eleven boxes that were whisked away to the Upper East Side. I tossed the old love letters from ex-boyfriends thinking that my past should stay there because I had a serious boyfriend with marriage potential and it would have been wrong to keep those, right?
Years later when I’d move out of the suburban marital residence and back into the City with my toddler in tow, I’d reevaluate my life based on the contents of the things I decided to keep rather than toss. The die-cut laminated handprint made into a turkey for Thanksgiving by my son Matty when he was two (keep forever); the shoes I wore on my first date with my ex-husband (toss); cheap plastic vases that came with I’m Sorry flowers long wilted (toss); the green towels from Bloomingdale’s that would not match my new neutral color palette (donate); the glass jar of restaurant matchboxes I collected over the years (keep). And it was always cheaper to leave the full-length mirror from Bed Bath & Beyond behind because keeping it safe wasn’t worth the hassle of moving it when replacing it was just a $20 ordeal.
The clothes got the once over too. Although I did regular closet purges, the move review was a bigger deal. The rhinestone jean jacket I hadn’t worn in two years (toss); the suit I wore for the GermanBank interview (keep). Did I really need six white t-shirts all the same style from Old Navy (keep three). The form fitting, red woven, 525 America fluttery sweater I wore in Saratoga that Jamie said was Smithsonian worthy (keep forever).
Just like my parents, I always moved the kitchen myself. Does everyone do that? That way on day one of the new house, I could pack or unpack as much as I wanted and still be able to have dinner, or breakfast. God forbid I missed a meal! I also usually did a bit of the closet and of course the sentimental stuff, both breakable and non.
I’m proud to say that I’ve lived in my current residence longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere in my life and although I haven’t moved recently, I have become an expert packer. I have my Go Bag stocked so that I can travel with very little notice. Chargers are wound neatly and stored in a mesh bag, with airline specific plug-in earphones, small packs of almonds, a healthy stack of business cards, and extra face masks. My trusty quart-sized Ziploc is fully stocked with mini versions of my basic liquids and gels. I have two carryon roller boards from which to select depending on the duration of my journey. And I know that I can slip my handbag, water bottle, laptop case, and snacks neatly into my personal item that fits perfectly under the seat in front of me. Yep, I have it down to a science.
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