When I retired in 2016, I had been living for 29 years in a 1,500-square-foot apartment in a suburb of Washington, D.C. — 25 of those years by myself. There were two big bedrooms plus a smaller den, two bathrooms, and a large living room, dining room and kitchen. And tons of closets, which was one of its big selling points. That’s a lot of space for one person, but in more than a quarter century, I had no problem filling it with furniture, decorative pieces, clothes . . . and a wide variety of other “stuff.”

What’s that — you want me to define “stuff”? How much time have you got?

During the three years that my sister was ill and I was taking care of her, I confess that I neglected my own life to a large extent. Medical and dental appointments became less frequent, as did housekeeping chores, which is why there are maid services. And when I’m stressed, I invariably turn to two things that I hope will make me feel better (but seldom do): eating and shopping. On this occasion, the eating wasn’t too big a problem because I didn’t have a lot of energy for cooking or noshing. But the shopping — well, thanks in no small part to Amazon, UPS, and the Internet, I may have gone just a wee bit overboard.

In all fairness to myself, though, a lot of the boxes that began arriving in my building’s package room contained household necessities, like bulk paper products and cleaning materials (for all the housework I wasn’t doing). But a lot more didn’t. For example, it was my honest intention to start cooking and entertaining again. But it turns out the road to Hell really is paved with good intentions, and I wound up with three Crockpots of different sizes, an air fryer I had no counter space for, several uniquely-shaped baking pans, and more beautiful serving dishes than the White House would normally require for a state dinner. And when I finally began preparing to move out in 2020, many of those things were still in their original boxes. They made great Christmas gifts for some very appreciative friends.

Then there were the clothes. When I worked in a law firm, and was doing a lot of travelling, I had an extensive wardrobe of beautiful jackets, silk blouses, trousers, cruise clothes, shoes, scarves, handbags, and jewelry. But when I retired, I found myself short of casual, hang-around clothes. So I started ordering jeans, sweats, tee shirts, sneakers . . . you name it. And a couple of times, when I hadn’t had time to do my own laundry because I was busy doing my sister’s, I found myself running low on clean underwear . . . so I simply ordered more to tide me over until I could get to the laundry room again. (TMI?)

When my sister passed away in 2017, I told myself that I would get to all of that backlog of mine . . . as soon as her estate was settled and her condo sold (I was her Executor). So I enlisted some help and began clearing out her apartment. Have you ever had to do that? It’s not only heart-breaking; it’s just plain hard to decide what to do with everything. In all, it took just over six months. Most items were sold or donated, but there were things that had great sentimental value to me, so they got packed into boxes . . . and added to the stack in my apartment! It was beginning to look like my very own Mexican border wall.

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Here’s a word of advice. If you ever find yourself overwhelmed by all the “stuff” you’ve amassed over the years, and you’re not actually a hoarder who just can’t let go of things for some deep psychological reason, then there’s an easy way to deal with it: move. I don’t just mean “move it” as in “get off the couch and get going” — but really move. To another location, another state . . . or another country, if need be. Then you have no choice other than to deal with all the crapola.

As it happened, that turned out to be my best option — not another country, and not just because of the “stuff,” but to another state, and because of my encroaching physical limitations. So I was forced to make the hard choices. And there was another consideration: I was moving from my 1,500-square-foot apartment into two rooms of my son’s home — two rooms that total about 300 square feet. One big bedroom, an adjoining, slightly smaller bedroom that serves as my den, my own bathroom, and two decent-sized closets — one for clothes, one for storage. A nice little “apartment”; but with all of my stuff? Oh. My. God!

Furniture was no problem. I took with me what I needed, sold or donated what I didn’t. Electronics — TV, laptop, iPad, iPhone — also a no-brainer. Pictures, fairly easy. I had a lot of wall space and thus a lot of pictures, but a good many fit nicely onto the walls of my two rooms and the connecting hallway; the rest — the family photos and such — are still in boxes in the attic. You don’t get rid of family stuff, gifts, or mementos of travel and special occasions. You let your kids deal with them after you’re gone, and since they’ll feel guilty about getting rid of things that meant so much to you, the boxes will probably wind up — again — in an attic. It would be interesting to see how many generations will continue to pass them along before someone actually looks at them, says “I have no idea who these people were,” and finally has the guts to donate them to the local historical society or simply throw them away.

But what do you do with things like table cloths, candy dishes, and that jar of buttons you’ve been saving since before you were married? Or the eight pairs of sunglasses that never fit quite right but might be useful in an emergency . . . or all of that other stuff that “might come in handy someday”? Like the Tupperware containers with missing lids, music CDs you haven’t listened to in years, and office supplies from when you worked at home. Or the yarn you bought to knit a baby blanket when your grandson, who is now 20-something, was born. Or . . .

Get the point? And I haven’t even mentioned the books — literally hundreds of wonderful, well-worn repositories of all the world’s wit and wisdom. It broke my heart to have to purge myself of the majority of those; but it shouldn’t surprise anyone to learn that in the three years since I moved, I’ve started building up my collection again, little by little. I can live without cruise clothes and air fryers . . . but not without the comfort of being surrounded by my books.

I suppose the best advice I can offer to someone young and just starting out on your own is not to get burdened with a lot of stuff in the first place, and you’ll never have to pack it all when you move, or get rid of it later in life when the time inevitably comes for you to downsize. But remember this — and I recently read this on a tee shirt designed by an anonymous individual so it must be true: “If it’s books, it’s not clutter.”

There was one item that took pride of place in my move: not in the moving truck, not even the rear of the big van we packed full and drove to my new home, but the front part of the van, closer to me and carefully wrapped in a mile of bubble wrap. That was a big, incredibly heavy urn made of pink Himalayan salt, which used to recline on my coffee table and now sits on a shelf above the fireplace mantle in the living room. It contains my sister Merna’s ashes — the one thing I cannot make myself part with. If that makes me an ash hoarder, or a crazy person, then so be it. But she and I had a “ribbit pact” — a name inspired by a little pillow we each had, depicting two frogs and the legend, “Together ‘til we croak.” And since I haven’t croaked yet, she’s not going anywhere either.

And now here I sit, among my pared-down possessions, secure in the knowledge that I will never again have to move all that accumulated “stuff.” And even better — I no longer have to dust it! Take heed, though, dear reader: your day will come. You might even want to get a head-start on it. If so, I suggest you begin with those sunglasses and buttons.

Just sayin’.

Brendochka
7/17/23