Keeping Goodwill stocked up with used Old Navy plain-colored T-Shirts since late last century

My attic storage space is all cleaned out now.  Which means there is a big pile of Rubbermaid containers and flattened boxes now taking up the part of my living room that I never use anyway.  I did remember to buy tape even, but that's as far as the packing got this weekend.

Which is fine.  I have three entire weekends between now and the move and, given all of the practice I have at it, I know I can pack up everything in much less time than that.

The first step, before packing even happens, is to make giant piles of stuff for Goodwill.  I do so love to get rid of stuff.  I find it very freeing.  That said, who knows how much stuff I'd accumulate if I didn't move so often.  It's much easier to motivate yourself to get rid of things when it's a game of Do I Want This Badly Enough to Move It? 

The answer to that question is especially easy when it comes to things like whatever is in that one packed box that has been in the attic since August.  Clearly really vital stuff.  Along with my stereo, which hasn't even been plugged in at any time since I've lived in Madison.  And the probably one-quarter of my clothes that I hauled up here and then never wore at any time in the past year.  (Things like that one evening gown that I still own obviously get exempted from the not worn in the past year policy.  A girl never knows when she might need a floor-length black dress, does she?  Even if she hasn't needed it in several years now and she also has a black cocktail dress and a black slightly-less-fancy-than-cocktail dress IT STILL FITS AND THAT IS WHAT IS IMPORTANT.)

It's the smaller stuff that's harder.  I threw out all of my CD boxes years ago and put my CDs in one big book.  There's still room in there, so there hasn't been any incentive to get rid of any, despite the deep shame that I'm sure some of them would bring to me if anyone knew I had ever owned them.  And there's probably scented lotion and bubble bath in my bathroom cabinet that I never will use.  (Note to parents: your child's teacher probably does not want bath products not of her own choosing for Christmas.)  Plus various unused picture frames.  I think it may be time to admit that I probably won't use these particular frames and even if I do need one at some indeterminate point in the future, they are not that expensive and I'm going to be at Target anyway.

I don't know how it is that I can have such a huge amount of stuff to get rid of once a year (or sometimes more often) but I always do.  As with all long-distance moves, I will be especially ruthless when weeding through stuff this time and then I will survey my findings and breathe a sigh of relief at having the burden of that stuff removed from my life.

Of course, my love of getting rid of stuff does not mean that I am lacking in all sentimentality.  There are two large shoe boxes in my closet that are chock full of assorted mementos that might not mean anything to more than one or two other people in the world.  That stuff is compact though.  In a storage space pinch, the shoe boxes can go under my bed.

But I haven't decided yet about the snow boots.  The eighty pounds of cat litter that were weighing down my car for winter driving have been donated to the Humane Society and my car shovel has been donated to Madison Friend Katie, but I haven't convinced myself yet that I might not need the snow boots again.  May have to be a game-time decision. 

Maybe that one packed box in the attic is how I secretly indulge my inner hoarder.  She gets one box to use how she sees fit.  I do know that a certain Cabbage Patch Kid is in there and she won't be going anywhere.  (Aindrea Sherry.  Yes, Aindrea.)  Maybe the boots can fit in there with her.  Just in case. 

Who knows?  I might decide a few years from now to spend Christmas in Switzerland and then where would I be?  Bootless, is where, and with cold, wet feet.  I better throw in some of the 1.2 million scarves I've amassed as well.  To be on the safe side.  Switzerland at Christmas is no place for a bare neck.  Particularly should the occasion call for an evening gown.