Still Packing

The house is an obstacle course. In the past few days I've managed to repeatedly injure myself. None of these injuries are bad (in fact the worst happened outside the home), but they consistently remind me to be careful. Bags of clothes are on the floor, surrounded by boxes, surrounded by school bags. Some of these things are packed, some need to be sorted, others haven't been touched yet. I know doing a bit each day is the smart way to do this, but it makes for a different type of stress.

In other packing related news, I've come across quite a few things from my past that have given me hope for the future. Positive reminders about who I once was, what was once important to me, and what I still have in common with that girl from years ago.

I wish I could contact her, and say don't worry Past Maile, it get's better. You become comfortable in your own skin, and the things that make you self conscience turn out to be the things you love about yourself. You will make friends, true friends. You will share your writing with others. You will go back to school. You will meet a guy who cares. You'll even move to San Francisco, just like you wanted. You will get through the growing pains. And, p.s. Past Maile, they're totally normal. Everyone has growing pains, even the people who appeared to have it all together.

I wish I could tell her not to worry so much. Hell, I wish I could tell Present Maile not to worry so much.

If you could contact your past self, what would you say to them? What words of wisdom would you offer yourself at 10? At 15? At 20? How have you changed, and in what ways have you stayed the same?

I think exploring this is one of my favorite parts about the moving process. Even if it can be painful at times.


Past Maile, before she became a ball of insecurity.

Goodbye Clothes

Now we're packing the apartment. Really packing the apartment. In some ways this is easier than the storage unit. Most of my apartment stuff is stuff that is going to San Francisco. Over the past few years, I've tried to sort through books as I go, and, bookworm that I am, those are the bulk of my regular purchases. It's the little things that aren't making the cut. A script here, a notebook there.

And the clothes.

Ah, the clothes. People say you should go through your closet once a year. Once a year! I have things I haven't touched in three! I'd like to say there's logic to what I'm keeping, that I have it down to a science, but I don't. Gone are the skirts that never fit me right, that never quite worked with my body. Gone are the sweaters I'm not sure I love, yet others I'm just as wary about stay. The jeans I can't quite fit into anymore? Some get tossed aside, others get to travel with me, waiting for the day they can be worn again. It's a quality issue; the good jeans and the good sweaters get to stay.

Then there are the clothes that still fit, and I still love, but just aren't me anymore. I'm not an ageist, I know more than a few women my own age who can still pull some of these outfits off. But sadly, I'm not one of them. Gone are my days of low cut lace up black tops and short plaid skirts.

And somehow, despite the fact that I've never considered myself a clothes horse, this is hitting surprisingly close to home. I know a lot of people who lose weight and deliberately get rid of their bigger clothes. But what if it's the opposite? What if you've been stress eating because of a big move, and hope to fit into the old clothes by March?

Today we tackle the kitchen. More Leonard's domain than my own, but I still expect some difficult decisions.

Goodbye to my Youth (Further Tales from the Storage Unit)

This weekend I finally tackled the most difficult part of the storage unit. The boxes that I didn’t want to sort through because I harbored a not so secret desire to find a way to keep these items.

I’m talking, of course, about my books.

This isn’t my entire book collection. This doesn’t even have a single book that I read after 2006 (save one or two that I had another copy of.) No, these are the books that I held close in my lonely youth. The books that I read before I was old enough and years after I passed the target demographic. Growing up, these were my friends.

Even at thirty, I can tell you all about Claudia Kishi and Dawn Schaffer. I not only know the differences between the Wakefield twins, but I can tell you about their family history. What, you were expecting Narnia? No, my childhood tastes weren’t as classic as all that. I spent years wishing that I lived in Stoneybrook, Sweet Valley or Sunset Island. I craved friendships as tight as those I read about in books, and took fashion cues from their pages. Red cowboy boots? Samantha Bridges, from Sunset Island. My sixth grade perm? Stacy McGill, fashionista of The Baby-Sitters Club. All the leopard print? Actually, I have no idea who inspired that.

And now they’re gone. The entire Freshman Dorm series. Gone. The bulk of The Baby-Sitters Club, a collection I maintained well into adulthood. Gone. The entire Sunset Island series, save my book autographed by author Cherie Bennett. Gone. My Sweet Valley collection, including Sweet Valley Kids, Sweet Valley Twins, The Unicorn Club, Sweet Valley High, Sweet Valley Senior Year and Sweet Valley University. Gone, gone and gone. All the random little standalone books, the Fear Streets, the Christopher Pikes. Gone.

Eleven boxes of books. Each box containing thirty to fifty books.

As the tears rolled down my face, I finally understood e-readers. I mean, there’s no way I could re-read every one of these books. But just the idea that I could. That I could still check in with my old friends and see how they’re doing. That I could remember when I thought they knew so much, and realize how young and stupid they were.

In a way the rest of packing should be easy. Getting rid of these books hurt. I knew that it would, but hell.

So many memories. Of racing to the bookstore for the latest in the series. Of finding an old special that I didn’t have in a thrift store. Of staying up late on vacation, desperate to know what would happen next. I remember flights to Hawaii, nights in Big Bear, mornings in Oceanside. I remember the discovery of a new series, meeting the characters for the first time. I remember at seventeen, pretending I was buying these books for a younger relative. Once upon a time, it wasn’t cool for adults to read young adult novels.

These books don’t exist anymore. In twenty years, when I have both money and room to spare, I can’t just go out and buy them again. This is it.

This is goodbye.

God I’m a nerd.

Tales of the Storage Unit

My storage unit is almost cleared out. I've gotten rid of so many things that I never wanted to get rid of, and kept so many wild card items. A pillow I couldn't part with. Braveheart Lion, who as a little girl, I believed would make me brave and cure my fear of the dark. He didn't. The little stuffed dog that a customer bought me my first day on my first job, a random act of kindness that still touches my heart.

But what has surprised me the most is the therapeutic action of clearing out memories. Of saying goodbye to those who hurt me in the past. Finding a printed out instant message conversation between myself and an ex, and coming to the simultaneous realization that he treated me like dirt, and that he did care about me. I read it, then ripped it into little pieces, throwing it, and his hold over me, away. I found cards from friends who've since left my life, and whispered thank you for the memories, as I threw the painful reminders away. I found letters from men who hurt me so long ago, and I rip them up, hoping to be free of the burdens of the past. I find pictures of myself looking so happy alongside those who would later betray me. I pray they never hurt another the way I was hurt, and, you guessed it, those pictures get torn in two. Me on one side, scum on the other.

But perhaps more amazing (and certainly happier), were all the good memories that I found mixed in with the bad. Pictures from school dances, old plays, field trips; all with people that in another lifetime I called friends. When I look back on my younger years, I always feel that I was alone, but I really wasn't. My close friends may have been people I found as an adult, but I had my niche growing up. I had people I sat with at recess. Boys and girls I took pictures with at the dances. There's a great picture of Sadie Hawkins, either Sophomore or Junior year. When I find a scanner, that's going on facebook. I'll give you a preview: blonde Maile with pigtails and red cowboy boots.

I found pieces of paper that embarrassed me. Made me cringe for the awkward preteen I once was. I found a diary from when I was about ten, with entries dedicated to a boy I'd since forgotten all about. I wasn't always a writer; that diary was obviously the work of a young child. I found my diary from my first week of college. An insecure book wondering why these people even liked me, and marveling over the fact that I had no idea which friendships would stick. One of the girls mentioned in that book is still a friend, albeit through facebook and the occasional email.

And now at thirty, on the brink of a new life, I say goodbye to these memories. To the painful, to the joyous, and to the humiliating. I remember that we've all been hurt by those we trust, that we've all been burned. I tell myself not to shortchange friendships from the past, even if they're not as close as they once were. Even if they've faded away completely. I laugh at my embarrassments, or at least try to, and tell myself that everyone has memories that make them cringe.

I've gotten rid of more than I want to, and yet somehow I'm keeping more than I expected. I'm keeping yearbooks, and pictures, and silly little gifts that make me smile. I'm keeping the reminders that I've never been alone, not truly, and that once upon a time, I believed I could do anything I set my mind to.

I need to go shopping

As the weather is cooling down in sunny Southern California, one thing has become abundantly clear to me. I am in no way prepared to live in a colder part of the state. I’m not talking about my wimpy Southern Californian tolerance; I did fine my year in Oregon. No, I’m talking about being prepared for cold weather in the way that counts.

My clothes.

Case in point. It’s currently a cloudy 58 degrees.

My current wardrobe is as follows:

• One zip up black sweater – A sweater that has served me well on previous trips to San Francisco. This sweater will likely get a lot of use.
• A pair of black pants – Again, no problem. These pants will work fine in San Francisco.
• A purple cotton t-shirt – Fine for a San Francisco summer (in fact, given the slightly peasant cut, it will probably help with the artsy image I hope to cultivate), but long sleeves might suit me better for the winter.
• A pair of sandals – This is the piece of my wardrobe that I’m most worried about. My shoes. I dislike socks, and 95% of my current socks are ugly, white, and used primarily to go with my ugly, white, restaurant shoes. I don’t have comfortable walking shoes, and even my every day ankle boots have recently fallen out of commission.

What do I need? I need sweaters. I need long sleeved tops. I need clothes that I can layer, clothes where the bottom layer is still warm and cozy. I could use some new socks, a new scarf, some gloves, and maybe some cute new hats. (I like hats – fun fact, I originally typed “I like hates”). I need shoes, pairs and pairs of shoes that are cute, comfortable and warm.

And somehow, I have to find things that I like, because there’s no way that I’m going to have room for even more clothes that I’ll never wear.

Side note, I have a lot of clothes that are getting donated to Goodwill this month. Why am I such a clothes packrat?

Forgotten Memories

This week my packing focus has been on my storage unit. If you don’t have a storage unit, you are a lucky person. My storage unit is chock full of items that moved from garage to garage, until I no longer had a garage to store them in.

While digging through the boxes, the first 25 years of my life flash before me at an alarming speed. In one box, I might find reminders of my early twenties. Scripts long forgotten and purses filled with business cards for former friends.

Remember when that’s how you gave someone your number? Somewhere I still have a box of my own business cards. My cell phone number and my smiling face, a headshot taken when I was 19 years old.

The next box might have stuffed animals, creatures that at one point were so dear to me. I hug each one, tears in my eyes, as I remember the seven year old who named each and every one of them. Now I can’t remember their stories, and as Toy Story 3 haunts my mind, I place them in the goodwill box.

The next box holds reminders of high school. I see pictures of school dances, pictures without me in them. I see my friends all dressed up, and marvel at how we’ve all changed. So many of them are married, some starting families. Others are lost to me, the few people from my past that I haven’t found on facebook. I find photographs of myself, and wonder if I knew how pretty I really was. I see other pictures that cancel out that vanity; I was not immune to the awkward years.

I put item after item in the box for goodwill. Scrap of memory after scrap of memory in the trash. Birthday cards, holiday cards. Postcards from people I’d almost forgotten existed. When did I, the girl with the remarkable memory, make enough memories to start forgetting? What else have I forgotten?

It’s a sobering thought.

In short, I urge you to sort through your life more often than every 30 years. Don’t let your childhood sit in boxes; waiting for you to uncover it and realize how much your life has changed.

In other news, I did find almost all of my NES games, as well as the system. Please work Nintendo, this Internet Super Mario Brothers 3 isn’t cutting it.

Sadly that is the one game I have yet to locate.