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.