Jake and I have moved three times in the five years we have been married. I hate moving. There is nothing worse than packing up our crap, moving it down the road and living out of boxes for a week. The long list of people I have to contact with our new address is almost revolting, and just when I think I have everyone crossed off we get another letter in the mail with that dreaded “forwarded address” sticker on it. Ugh.
The only good thing about moving is that it forced us to examine everything and determine whether or not it really needed to be packed, carried to and from a pickup and then unpacked. I was surprised to discover how unnecessary my extensive vase collection became after I realized the amount of weight they added to a box destined for an upstairs trek. Because of our recent move (and purge), I am comfortable with the amount of stuff we have. So far, everything has a place and almost everything has a use. I worked really hard for that hallowed status.
Last night, while rummaging through things at my grandma’s sale, I started thinking about all of the stuff Jake and I have accumulated. Will any of it be important to Rachel or anyone else in the family? Which memories will be sold to the highest bidder? Will our cherished items be grouped into boxes and sold for $1? Which pieces will be considered junk and end up not selling at all?
For the first time in my life I actually bid on things last night. As we got closer to the first item my knees got weak, my heart raced and my head spun. How high should I go? How do I know I’m bidding on the right piece? What if I accidently pick my nose and buy a $500 vase? All valid concerns. As it turns out I knew when to stop (thanks to my poker skills), I didn’t bid on anything I didn’t want and I left with my dignity.