Is This Even Mine?

I hate packing.

Actually, it's the process of sorting that I hate.

I am running around the house like a headless chicken, distractedly picking up items from the piles I have made, blankly staring at them, and then asking myself:  Do I want this? 

Unless the answer is an immediate and resounding YES, I have to ask a series of other questions, like:  What is this?  Do I like it?  Do I need it?  Why do I own this thing? Is this even mine?  Which usually results in me tossing it, or placing it in a large rubbermaid box and then wishing I had tossed it.

Trying to decide what the heck is important enough to keep in storage for two years is going to be the death of me.  I've decided to take the Survival Approach:

When we move back from Denmark, and we can't afford anything because we have to pay for a moving van, rent + deposit, and another vehicle ('cause mine got smooshed), what will we NEED?

A bed.  Linens.  Dishware.  My books, naturally (I need them, I swear).

Throw in a few sentimental whatsits, a couple antiques, tools, and my expensive bamboo blinds - and you've got a good-sized pile growing in your living room.

And that's where I put my foot down.  NO MORE STUFF!  I am not going to come back to the states and drown in my storage unit.  It will fit in a 5X10 unit or it must go.

My dad says he will never sell his current house because he does not want to move the things inside of it.  If I didn't love being clutter-free, I'd think this was a good approach.  A permanent storage unit in the boonies of Northeast Georgia.

If I don't resurface again in twenty-four hours, come find me.  And bring a compass and also some ice cream.