Packing and unpacking are not life skills I’ve managed to acquire yet. I’m good at having small, contained piles of things, and knowing exactly where everything is in each of them. I have books in order on shelves, files full of financial papers sorted by date, and fancy CD racks in which my music is organized by genre. But when it comes to getting all these things into boxes, or back out of them and into some kind of order, everything goes wrong. I open a box, take out three books, realize I have no room for those books, move some of the books I hate (yes, there are some) into the playroom, throw out a few thin paperbacks from the days of the Scholastic book orders while I’m there, return to my room, see the papers on my desk I’m supposed to be sorting, open a desk drawer, remember that this was not what I was doing earlier, find the books I began with, and pass out foaming at the mouth.
The files have been a great adventure. So far I’ve recategorized all my bank and credit card stuff, purged five years of bank receipts, condensed my medical info, and thrown out all the crappy drawings of elves and Limited Too models I did between sixth and ninth grade.
Other fun stuff, and by “fun” I mean “oh lord please tell me I have made some social progress as a human being in the last eight years”:
-notes from class to my cool friends (who signed the notes LYLAS*), my crushes, and my nerdy friends (which featured little sketches of scenes from Lord of the Rings and which are mostly signed “Namarie,” which means “farewell”)
-The card my boyfriend at the time used to ask me to homecoming
-Episode 1-era fanfiction, featuring a girl whose Jedi parents were killed when she was young, and at the highly capable age of fifteen was currently serving Queen Amidala as some kind of independent Jedi spymaster. The Jedi Council decided she was too dangerous to be able to use the Force, or something, so they gave her this shot that killed her midichlorians, or something, so she couldn’t use the Force. Much languishing and weeping involved, as well as every single name of every single character mentioned in the Star Wars Encyclopedia which I definitely don’t still own.
-My 18th-birthday card from my friend Kellie, featuring such advice as “your job will probably suck until you’re thirty. Unless you die.”
-The receipt for my bike, purchased in 2002
And I still haven’t found my underwear.**
*Love Ya Like A Sister. I know.
**Luckily this is not yet a crisis, because I’m such a packrat that I have four or five pairs in my dresser already. But still.