Greetings, Banana Holders!
I'm not sure if today's post relates to letting go of my bananas, but I feel that it might in some weird abstract way. At some point, I decided to follow these two rules of getting rid of stuff:
1) If you haven't worn it in a year, you don't need it.
2) If it now hangs baggy on your arse or gives you muffin top, you don't need it.
So I cleaned out my dresser drawers and closet, pulling out items that met the above criteria, and managed to fill six paper grocery bags with clothes I no longer need (although I'm sure the day when those jeans no longer give me muffin top, as well as the perfect occasion to wear that frumpy button-down pink shirt with the year-old sweat stains in the armpits, is JUST around the corner!)
Six bags of clothes seemed like enough to warrant having a garage sale, so I convinced my neighbor to organize a dual-household sale while K was out of town. In trying to scrounge up other things to sell (we don't have much, having moved like eight thousand times in the past five years), I meandered into the dank-smelling garage. Ours is the old separate kind, really ramshackle wooden shed built in the 1930s. Instinct led me to a particular mountain of stuff in the cobwebby back corner, hidden underneath a black tarp. I hadn't been back there in over a year, and knew exactly what it was. Feeling oddly high, I yanked off the tarp and dragged all of this stuff (in surprisingly good shape!) out into the driveway:
Yes, time to clean out my garage and heart. In my head, I did have the schizophrenic dialogue you can probably imagine:
"Why am I keeping all this shit?"
"There is no Zachary."
"Fine. It's for the next baby, then."
"There might not be a next baby."
"Fine, but what if there is. Why let this perfectly good baby gear go to waste."
"The BOGS said you can't recycle one baby's stuff for the next baby. That's wrong. Get rid of it."
Gaaaahhh! O-kay, already! So on Sunday morning, I put it out with my six bags of old clothes and the rest of my neighbor's stuff, with a "name your own price" sign.
Within minutes, a couple in a beat-up old station wagon pulled up and offered me five bucks for the whole lot of baby stuff. I was like, I'm sorry, FIVE BUCKS?? Add a zero after that five, and it's yours. They laughed and drove away. By the end of the day, half of it was gone - and I left the rest out on the curb with a "free" sign. Boy, that got rid of it in a flash.
Now the part that makes me a human being with feelings, which I sometimes forget I have the right to be. That night, with K still out of town, I woke up in a cold panicky sweat, breathing a mile a minute. I suddenly felt like I'd made the wrong choice, getting rid of everything. I was afraid that I'd acted too impulsively, cleaning out those remnants of my son, and wished I'd kept just a few of those cute onesies, just for future reference. I fell back asleep with my mind ticking away, outlining a plan for getting some of that stuff back - posting an ad on Craigslist and the classifieds: "WANTED: The stuff you took from the curb in front of my house. Bring it back - REWARD!"
But I felt better the next morning, and never followed through on that plan. The thing is, they're things. Just empty, meaningless things. Empty onesies with no baby inside. Still, every so often I wish I'd kept just one, and I wonder who's wearing those things now.
By the way, to end on a more upbeat note, somebody found my site by Googling "getting a bloody nose during fellatio!" I couldn't figure out why on earth those particular...shall we say, graphic search terms draw somebody here, but after a bit of research, I determined it was Shaz's fault (I'll let you ask her about that in person). And more important, is this a common occurrence? Getting a bloody nose during fellatio, I mean. Just some food for thought.