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The Joys of Being a Pack Rat
My shoeboxes of stuff allow me touch the past in a way no digital memory could
I have a confession to make. I’m a pack rat, notorious for my obsession with memorabilia. I possess shoebox after shoebox of ticket stubs, art exhibit pamphlets, birthday cards, graduation programs, theater playbills, music festival wristbands, goofy photo booth pics — one shoebox might span several years’ worth of travel and adventures.
I’ve kept notes passed between me and my best friend during middle school science class, along with every single journal I’ve ever written in, including the ones I gave up on after a single entry. I still have the sage wristband gifted to me by a friend after dancing in the South Dakota sun for four days without food and water, as well as a seashell-studded dread cut from a friend’s locks during our college days.
The last week, however, I’ve been busy doing my least favorite activity: packing. This tedious process means being confronted with my stuff; the physical objects that form the chaotic evidence of my earthly existence. As I write this, I’m on a plane to Puerto Rico with my husband and too many suitcases filled with kitchen supplies, clothes, and books. We’ve decided to bring only the bare essentials with us for now, leaving the memorabilia behind in storage.
