Sentimental junk

Every girlfriend holds on to things long past its expiration date. From a favorite pair of skinny jeans tucked away until it fits another day to that tube of pink lipstick we can’t stop wearing, sometimes it’s just so hard to say goodbye.

I’ve been chastised for this infamous “Brown Swimsuit” I used to love. It was the perfect combination—a well-fitted bottom that hid all that needed to be covered down below and an equally well-fitted top that accentuated the sisters. Apparently, it was well past its expiration date. Turned sour, really. I haven’t worn that swimsuit in more than a full year, but I’m still harassed to burn it. It’s the (I really liked it!)

The funny part is that I save not only the things I love but also the stuff that doesn’t make sense to keep. And I’m not sure why I’m such packrat, but most girls are. I’ve been known to stash a few things away in a drawer, waiting patiently to be resurrected.

Okay maybe a lot of things.

I have a drawer (or few) crammed with lip glosses, tampons, a recipe torn from a magazine, a notepad, pens in a rainbow of colors, Astroglide, several tubes of trial-sized lotions, a crayon, an appointment card from 2005, six ponytail holders, and some kids’ jewelry. Then there’s an overflowing drawer stuffed with belts and neck scarves (did anyone wear them outside of Dallas?); old costume jewelry that may come back in style in another decade or two, a scrap paper for a playdate with a mother I can’t remember, a dog collar (?), an exercise video, sparkly hair clips, at least a dozen gel inserts for my bras and oh, yeah, more tampons! (Does everyone stash them as strategically as I do around their bedrooms?) Not to mention the “Pocketbook Graveyard” cabinets either. I won’t even get into that!

Some items I’ve saved are ridiculous; it’s the lazy Tracy that forces me to save things such as the half-used tube of airline-sized toothpaste. For the flight I may take in the future, I’ll think “there’s no sense in tossing it.” Instead, I’ll stash away on my desk. It never made it back in the bathroom since the last trip. It’s here on my desk because when I put it there (laziness, remember?), I figured the next time I’d need it, I wouldn’t forget it because I so obviously left it on my desk. Of course, this was not the tube of toothpaste I brought on my last trip, because it got buried amongst all the other crap on my desk. (So it obviously wasn’t obvious!)

Some of the “junk” is worth saving because of its sentimental value. Such as the first Valentine my husband wrote or my kid’s first birthday card. Unfortunately, somewhere along the road of sentimentality, I swung far to the left of center and transformed into a pack rat. I started hording. It’s not just the cards from my husband that I’ve saved. Actually, it’s every card anyone has ever sent to me since my mid-twenties. (And that was quite awhile ago!) Yes, you heard me right. If you are my friend and have ever sent me a birthday card, invitation, birth announcement, holiday photo, postcard, get well card, flower arrangement, gift through the internet, or even a thank you note, I have it cataloged away for safekeeping.

My friend Indie is totally on board with this concept. She just spent an entire day, a completely kid-free Saturday (well, okay, she doesn’t have kids yet), a whole afternoon to conduct an archaeological dig in her guest bedroom closet which stores her troves of sentimental “junk”. I am not exaggerating when I use the term “archaeological dig.” Indie could reconstruct her entire past—every old boyfriend, every injury, and travel destination, she had experienced for a major portion of her early adulthood years—through the careful examination of her collection of junk.

And as an avid junk collector and professional archaeologist myself, I enjoyed our long conversation on the guided tour of Indie’s past. It was hilarious and some of the random stuff she had saved from me, I could actually remember it too. It was a trip down Indie’s memory lane.

Every so often, we all seem compelled to clean out our closets. I’m good for a spring cleaning (and full examination, of course) about every two to three years. But it seems we’re all doing that more often now as we start to approach our 40s. Forty isn’t here yet, but I just passed the exit ramp warning sign that read “40—2 miles.” So perhaps it’s that awareness that pushes us to clean out our memory closet, dust off our favorite things and reexamine both what it meant to us then and how it fits us now.

Indie, my soul sister, and I may be a bit extreme. Not just in the collecting part but the re-examining, inspecting, finding new meaning part. Some girls don’t save quite to that extent. And I know a few who have tossed out most of their junk. They were able to say, “that was then and this is now” and out it goes with the baby’s bath water.

Sometimes we save our junk because we want to hold on to our past. Sometimes we save it to remind ourselves how far we’ve come. Either way, sometimes you just need the closet space.