Monday, 28 January 2002 | Mothballs

I find it disturbing that I can no longer remember what I put in the big, black plastic bags yesterday, the bags that will soon be delivered to a local thrift store, dumped out and sorted out, their contents put on hangers and stored next to foreign blouses with ruffly collars and double-knit pants that smell like mothballs.

I promised my mom I'd help her get rid of some of my old stuff, now that I'm able to do that to some extent. So yesterday I drove down to Buies Creek and made piles: clothes to give away, clothes to keep at my parents' house just in case I ever want to wear them again, clothes to take back to Raleigh, and clothes that maybe my mom will want to wear. Together, the last three piles (which are all some form of 'keep,' I realize) outweighed the first pile, of course, but progress was made. That's right, two big bags of progress.

Inside those two bags are garments that give me a pang of recollection, a feeling I've grown used to being able to produce with a peek inside my old closet. Ha! I remember wearing that. Man, that's hideous! But that moment of nostalgia shouldn't outweigh some sensible organization or the necessary return of those '80s gems back in circulation. I know kids today are dying for a white cotton newsboy hat, a Swatch visor, and some frighteningly short dresses...right? I know that being able to locate items in pictures I see from long ago does not connect me with the past, and, contrary to my belief as a child, any children I might have will very likely not want most of the crap I've been so busy squirreling away.

I just want to remember what it was that I casually discarded yesterday. All I can recall right now are those hats and dresses and some cheap, plastic belts that now only fit around a thigh. I'm not going to need that stuff, am I?