I must be serious about this move – I just put all five of my square dancing crinolines in a box marked sell.
Last night I sorted the last of the castoff clothing. My son has outgrown all of what he calls handy-downs; I know for sure that I will not have another baby so these small things are going away forever.
I’ll keep a couple of his blazers and ties but the small black turtlenecks and assorted overalls will move on to a new home. Looking through the photographs I am glad that I had these children so young – I am too old now to even consider taking on the rigorous challenge of tending an infant. Especially the eccentric sort that I produced.
Going through the papers I discovered some treats, like Byron’s high school transcripts (they expected him to be a novelist!) and a few remnants of half-forgotten horror. I still have the x-rays from my car accident. I still have paper copies documenting various scandals with the magazine – proof at least that my memory of what happened is accurate and precise.
Strange that we live in a world where it is necessary to maintain records of ephemeral internet conversations. If it were just my reputation at stake I would burn it all right now; I have no desire to defend my decisions by revealing the true character of those who chatter and gossip. But since law enforcement was involved twice, I should keep these files for the time being. I’m going to save them with my tax records and assume that the seven-year rule is wise.
Now my hand and neck are too sore to do much of anything. I suppose that I should just go take a bath and stop fretting.