I am moving into a new apartment on Sunday, and this will be the twentieth time I have moved in my 39 1/2 years. The average American apparently moves 11.7 times in their lifetime, so I’m well ahead of that curve. It’s not so much that I like moving, but I do like the newness that comes with it. Newness slows down the clocks a bit. When you’re young, everything is new, so time seems to drag on forever. As we get older, the newness of the world slowly evaporates, and the years begin to fly by. So, maybe all this moving is, in a way, my attempt to make my world new again. It’s also why I like smoking pot from time to time, but that’s another story.
But it’s not a particularly fun process, so I understand why most people don’t do it very often. It forces you to confront all your stuff and decide whether it’s worth hanging onto or not. The older I get, the less stuff seems worth hanging onto, although I still have more than I should. Our economy depends largely on our addiction to accumulating stuff, and our identities are weirdly tied to the stuff we have, so it’s hard to let go. But as I get older I’ve been realizing that my stuff is just weighing me down, and that most of it will end up in a landfill eventually anyway, so why not now, particularly when it will mean one less box to move on Sunday.
So I’m trying my best to discard/give away/donate/sell as much of my stuff as I can, because you can’t take it with you, unless you’re moving, in which case you have to take it with you.