Since 2010 I've had a storage unit.

Each time I roll open the door, I see my life in bins.

It makes me feel nauseous.

I wonder when I'll be settled in one place with all my stuff

and tchotchkies that have no actual purpose except to remind

me of a time, place or feeling.

I'll soon be moving from a furnished studio apartment

to a partly furnished one bedroom.

My daunting, emotional task is to purge my 8x10,

stacked to the rafters, storage unit.

I'll save only my most valued treasures and tchotchkies

from the cluttered, climate controlled cage.

I feel like a guest on the old TV favorite, This is Your Life,

each time I open an unlabeled bin.

Bins of record albums, scrapbooks, scripts and love letters.

I'm equipped with heavy duty Hefty trash bags and slowly begin the purge.

Do I really need every birthday, good luck, it was great working with you

and I'll never love anyone but you cards?

Those filled two Heftys.

What to do with the wedding album, return invitations with check marks for

beef, chicken or fish, the pre-cana workbook? (Why the hell did I keep that?)

Hefty, Hefty, Hefty.

When I open the CD bin I freeze...then bargain...I'll find the space.

I draw the line when it comes to my music.

There's memories in that music that's more valuable to me than any

cheap accessory I either bought or was gifted.

Purging prior attachments is getting easier.

Now the bin with the character shoes, the tap shoes, the jazz sneakers,

the fishnets, the recital costumes...I just need a barn.

They are now at Goodwill waiting for future dreamers and dancers.

Oh God, the portrait of me with a 60's Lesley Gore inspired

bouffant hairdo, looking at a daisy.

WHY?

The only thing I can recall about that photo was the

experience at the hairdresser's when I was instructed to cover my

eyes, nose and mouth before my hair was plastered with AquaNet.

I could barely peel my fingers apart after the spray.

Since the portrait is flat, and for some reason my Mom loved it, I'll keep it.

My favorite find was my gym uniform.

My first athletic rewards proudly sewn on.

The badges were proof I had done more sit-ups, a longer arm hang,

an impressive 50 yard dash and a 600 yard run. What a jock!

More impressive that any of those badges is my

hand embroidered name lovingly sewn on by my Grandmother.

The memories that ended up in the Hefty bags aren't really gone.

They're in my new storage unit, my heart.