When I moved into my first apartment, I accumulated “stuff,” not thinking too much about what I was bringing into my home. Not expensive stuff, mind you, as my favorite haunts were (and continue to be) garage sales, thrift stores, and the like. But just stuff.
And you truly never realize how much stuff you have until you have to move.
The Ex later moved into that (first) apartment with me, bringing very little of his own. Soon after we moved into a two-bedroom garden apartment.
More space = more stuff.
And that is where most people, including myself, veer off track.
I have a picture from when The Ex and I moved into that second apartnent. I’m in the back corner of the living room, looking like something the cat dragged in, surrounded by boxes. And boxes. And boxes.
And man, what a weird collection of stuff it was. Miami Dolphin memorbilia (his). Huge Marilyn Monroe and James Dean framed prints (ours). That was an odd phase. Rubber stamp collections (mine and still have).
Shaking head.
Soon after we got married, we bought our first house. Again, more space = more stuff.
And then our second house (where the kids and I live now), thankfully a bit smaller.
And then our third house (bigger).
And now we’re back to house #2. That’s a story by itself.
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