Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Just a Sentimental Guy
I've always been a sentimental person. I've always held onto things. I tell myself it's so I can remember where I came from, except lately, I've begun to question what these things specifically remind me about where I came from that is worth remembering. While packing the last couple nights for my official moving in with the love of my life, here are some examples I found:
I. Old Jobs Stuff
While going through a dresser and suitcase full of clothes, I found not one uniform from an old job, but three: a Denny's shirt, apron, and nametag; Slick Willies Pool Hall T-shirts, as well as long-sleeve and halter tuxedo shirts, complete with Slicks aprons; and a plethora of Chuy's T-shirts and aprons, including two hideous Christmas tees they made everyone wear to sell gift cards.
Why do I hold onto these things? Well, above all, on the job front I've not burned many bridges, which explains while I haven't had the greatest jobs, I have almost never been unemployed.
That explains the Slicks uniform. Although the tux shirts are yellowed and I shudder at the idea of ever wearing that apron again, even for a couple hours, I know if they ever needed an extra hand at a moment's notice, and if I were to need it, I could slip them on, walk in with nothing, and walk out with some decent cash.
Then I ask myself, when is the last time I ever did that? I almost can't remember, and that is because I have not worked a single hour for Slick Willies since my car accident, and I don't plan to again for the rest of my life.
The Chuy's tees again I kept for a similar reason, and because I feel wasteful getting rid of t-shirts. But I quit working there a nearly a year ago, and haven't looked back either. I think it's time.
The Denny's one is more complicated, because of the emotional ties I have to that place. I worked there just after the accident, in one of my lowest points ever. I also reflected on another time while working there, since it was the same location and job I had the summer I was 17: the same summer the Goldeneye song is about; the same summer I fell in love for the first time; the same summer I wrecked the first car I ever owned; the same summer that somehow determined where my life went exactly -- for a little while.
It's a combination of remembering all that -- the reunion with the place, how I felt during both sequences of months, years apart, that weave in and out of each other creating something new; along with a painfully uncomfortable pang whenever I come across one of those aprons or my nametag -- that first lead me to question why I hang onto these things in the first place.
II. Old Scenester T-shirts
I found about a billion shirts bought at a concerts in moments when I felt quite certain they were the coolest articles of fabric I owned. I cut several of them up for this indie-emo-punk look, which I even shot myself wearing for my photo class. Now I look at them and think a) I can't believe I actually wore that in public; b) much less to a bar or to go running in; and c)no wonder I became jaded with the world and all the douchebags in it when I was dressing trashy and hanging out at even skeezier places. I try to tell myself I didn't know any better. I guess I'm still trying to reconcile that.
III. Clothes Which Do Not Belong to Me
Never really did the whole giving-stuff-back thing with an ex? I mean, if I have a couple t-shirts or whatever, it's not really worth calling a person, especially if it's been a while. Two options here: I can give something to a mutual friend, knowing I still might not get my end of things back. I also know by giving something back that may or may not be forgotten could also give that person the same unfriendly reminder I'd like to erase in the first place. Hmph. If I were a spiteful person, I could cut it up and wash a toilet with it like Kyra Sedgwick does in Singles, right?
IV. Albums
Onto the cool stuff. Needing something fresh and out of the ordinary to listen to while going through all this junk, I stumbled upon a couple records I did not realize were pretty golden.
One is this two-disc Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young album someone gave me once. Two summers ago I was packing up Joe's car to leave for home from Elks Camp, guitar over my shoulder. The nurse's husband, also a fellow counselor's stepfather, comes up to me and says, "You like to rock?"
"Yes," I say.
"And you like to travel, like on the road?"
"Yes," I nod again.
"Listen to this!" he says, and hands it to me. Just like that. Took me this long to listen to it, but I say things like this are supposed to hit you when you are ready.
Same thing with this American Analog Set you sent me Randy, years ago. I thought I had listened to everything from that stash already: you've sent me Castanets and Ben Gibbard and Pinback and The Gerbils and tons of others. Somehow I missed that one but it's like Radiohead meets Jimmy Eat World meets Sufjan Stevens. I dig.
V. Clothes Handed Down to Me Which Never Once Fit
Yeah, you know when people give you clothes that are too small or too big? Or maybe you bought something and decided it was too small or too big after the fact, but they were always too nice to throw away?
VI. Expired Medications from Like 2006
This is just a reminder one should clean out the medicine chest once in awhile. Last time I was sick I didn't buy DayQuil because I thought I had some; then I didn't want to take it 'cause it had expired like three years ago. Check your medicine chest, yo!
The Places You and Things End Up
I'm keeping the albums. The nicer things are in a bag to donate. The rest is in a great mound of trash I will be taking out today. Somehow I am immensely proud of it.
I've always been a sentimental person. I've always held onto things. I tell myself it's so I can remember where I came from, except lately, I've begun to question what these things specifically remind me about where I came from that is worth remembering. While packing the last couple nights for my official moving in with the love of my life, here are some examples I found:
I. Old Jobs Stuff
While going through a dresser and suitcase full of clothes, I found not one uniform from an old job, but three: a Denny's shirt, apron, and nametag; Slick Willies Pool Hall T-shirts, as well as long-sleeve and halter tuxedo shirts, complete with Slicks aprons; and a plethora of Chuy's T-shirts and aprons, including two hideous Christmas tees they made everyone wear to sell gift cards.
Why do I hold onto these things? Well, above all, on the job front I've not burned many bridges, which explains while I haven't had the greatest jobs, I have almost never been unemployed.
That explains the Slicks uniform. Although the tux shirts are yellowed and I shudder at the idea of ever wearing that apron again, even for a couple hours, I know if they ever needed an extra hand at a moment's notice, and if I were to need it, I could slip them on, walk in with nothing, and walk out with some decent cash.
Then I ask myself, when is the last time I ever did that? I almost can't remember, and that is because I have not worked a single hour for Slick Willies since my car accident, and I don't plan to again for the rest of my life.
The Chuy's tees again I kept for a similar reason, and because I feel wasteful getting rid of t-shirts. But I quit working there a nearly a year ago, and haven't looked back either. I think it's time.
The Denny's one is more complicated, because of the emotional ties I have to that place. I worked there just after the accident, in one of my lowest points ever. I also reflected on another time while working there, since it was the same location and job I had the summer I was 17: the same summer the Goldeneye song is about; the same summer I fell in love for the first time; the same summer I wrecked the first car I ever owned; the same summer that somehow determined where my life went exactly -- for a little while.
It's a combination of remembering all that -- the reunion with the place, how I felt during both sequences of months, years apart, that weave in and out of each other creating something new; along with a painfully uncomfortable pang whenever I come across one of those aprons or my nametag -- that first lead me to question why I hang onto these things in the first place.
II. Old Scenester T-shirts
I found about a billion shirts bought at a concerts in moments when I felt quite certain they were the coolest articles of fabric I owned. I cut several of them up for this indie-emo-punk look, which I even shot myself wearing for my photo class. Now I look at them and think a) I can't believe I actually wore that in public; b) much less to a bar or to go running in; and c)no wonder I became jaded with the world and all the douchebags in it when I was dressing trashy and hanging out at even skeezier places. I try to tell myself I didn't know any better. I guess I'm still trying to reconcile that.
III. Clothes Which Do Not Belong to Me
Never really did the whole giving-stuff-back thing with an ex? I mean, if I have a couple t-shirts or whatever, it's not really worth calling a person, especially if it's been a while. Two options here: I can give something to a mutual friend, knowing I still might not get my end of things back. I also know by giving something back that may or may not be forgotten could also give that person the same unfriendly reminder I'd like to erase in the first place. Hmph. If I were a spiteful person, I could cut it up and wash a toilet with it like Kyra Sedgwick does in Singles, right?
IV. Albums
Onto the cool stuff. Needing something fresh and out of the ordinary to listen to while going through all this junk, I stumbled upon a couple records I did not realize were pretty golden.
One is this two-disc Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young album someone gave me once. Two summers ago I was packing up Joe's car to leave for home from Elks Camp, guitar over my shoulder. The nurse's husband, also a fellow counselor's stepfather, comes up to me and says, "You like to rock?"
"Yes," I say.
"And you like to travel, like on the road?"
"Yes," I nod again.
"Listen to this!" he says, and hands it to me. Just like that. Took me this long to listen to it, but I say things like this are supposed to hit you when you are ready.
Same thing with this American Analog Set you sent me Randy, years ago. I thought I had listened to everything from that stash already: you've sent me Castanets and Ben Gibbard and Pinback and The Gerbils and tons of others. Somehow I missed that one but it's like Radiohead meets Jimmy Eat World meets Sufjan Stevens. I dig.
V. Clothes Handed Down to Me Which Never Once Fit
Yeah, you know when people give you clothes that are too small or too big? Or maybe you bought something and decided it was too small or too big after the fact, but they were always too nice to throw away?
VI. Expired Medications from Like 2006
This is just a reminder one should clean out the medicine chest once in awhile. Last time I was sick I didn't buy DayQuil because I thought I had some; then I didn't want to take it 'cause it had expired like three years ago. Check your medicine chest, yo!
The Places You and Things End Up
I'm keeping the albums. The nicer things are in a bag to donate. The rest is in a great mound of trash I will be taking out today. Somehow I am immensely proud of it.
2 Comments:
I feel you. I have been ridiculously proud of all the things I've thrown away, each time I've moved.
To be proud of the things you've thrown away is a novel concept, and a beautiful one. Thank you!
