Stuff

When I asked my brother for move advice a month or two ago, he said "Sell your TV to Dad and get rid of everything else." I regarded him with utter horror. Get rid of my stuff?!? I ignored him -- obviously he was trying to trick me, gaining a leg up on a lifelong sibling rivalry. I opted to have my stuff moved to California; I'd merely have to endure 3 or 4 weeks of Spartan Encinitas living before my things arrived.






After the first week or two, I began to see my brother's point of view. I had an air mattress and a laptop, and I began to wonder just why the hell I needed anything from my East Coast life. I entertained thoughts of the moving truck, making its way across the country, being involved in some great accident, my stuff ablaze amidst melting bubble wrap. Not exactly a fantasy, but certainly the scenario did not evoke the sense of loss it once would have.

This week, my stuff arrived, my apartment has been transformed into a mini-warehouse.




My beloved couch, a stylish, comfortable piece with me for 8 years, I now consider a casualty of the move, at its girth prohibited the necessary maneuvering around critical corners to my apartment. This, as reported by the large Russian mover who I regard as an expert on the matter. Instead of finding a place in my new living room, it now lives in an Encinitas self-storage unit. I'm reminded of the guilt I felt as a child, leaving our dog at the kennel.

Tyler Durden, from Fight Club, proffered "The things you own end up owning you." That's true, and I'd like to add that your stuff can also start charging you $84 a month in storage fees for the pleasure.