Here’s what I learned about myself after three days of going through old boxes.
- I am the king of all Pack Rats. Bow before me.
- I only have photos of the exes I don’t want to remember. And I have so many. (Photos, not exes.)
- That box I packed when I went off to college in 1991? The one I dragged with me from the dorms, to the three different houses in Santa Cruz, to the five different apartments in San Francisco? There was nothing interesting in it.
- I take way too many photos. If digital cameras hadn’t come along, I would have died in an avalanche of photo paper in 2005.
- Please tell me there are no photos of me wearing half the clothes I found in those boxes. Or, at least, tell me there are none within Google’s reach.
- I found at least three types of digital media that my present computer is unable to read.
- If you wrote for the Fish Rap in college, and you handed me a floppy disk with your story on it, and I said I’d get it back to you, I lied.
- It feels good to get rid of stuff, to shed your skin and start anew. But I probably should have stopped when that was still metaphorical. People keep staring at my naked chin.