Proving Myself to Myself

George Clooney may have killed Batman, but his voice sounds like the manliest piece of velvet dipped in milk chocolate. I’ve seen plenty of his films, but I had forgotten this fact until recently watching Up in the Air. In it, before his character learns his lesson, Clooney gives lectures about the freedom of living without attachments to people, places and things. I caught myself nodding in agreement, but I’m not sure it had anything to do with his argument. I would probably do the same thing if he was reading the phone book.

When considering moving, I can think of nothing except how difficult the process of packing and shipping will be. This leads me spring clean with the strength of three grandmothers. If I can even imagine myself becoming bored of something eventually, it has to go. I argue with myself about whether or not I need to own more than two pairs of jeans. I give away DVDs and throw away cherished keepsakes. Whenever my apartment lease is nearing, nothing is safe. About once a year, I wonder if my friends think I am planning to kill myself and enter the afterlife with my possessions equally distributed.

This possession-anorexia comes into conflict with my interests. I have drawer boxes full of comic books, and shelves full of movies and books I could never part with. I try to fit everything I own into a couple imaginary cardboard boxes, but there are so many things I could never stand to get rid of. Even if I will never again read Me Talk Pretty One Day, or never again watch American Beauty, these are the things I have to hold on to. I’ve learned to make compromises, and I tell myself I wouldn’t mind too much if these things are destroyed in a fire.

Just after Christmas, after its second birthday, my laptop screen died. I had previously loaded my one gig flash drive with my Microsoft Word documents, which I had considered the most important things. I viewed this as my big test to really prove myself as a packrat’s nightmare. My unreadable laptop carried year’s worth of pictures, music, audio books, and pirated film editing software. In my hand, I carried my resume and a few crappy short stories. If I waited around and dealt with some hassles, I could move over everything to a new hard drive. If I didn’t, I could start again with reasonably blank slate.

As I carried my dearly departed computer down to the dumpster, I told myself to stay strong. Even if I had missed the point of his movie, George Clooney would be proud of me.