There is nothing in the world quite so lonely as packing and moving alone. I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.
It's almost worth never moving again to not have to go through this. It is horrible.
There are all those stacks of papers that I never bothered to file. There are all those drawers full of clothes I bought and never wear. There are shelves full of little knick-knacks that I can't believe I would ever need but I can't imagine throwing away.
Actually, I am getting rid of some clothes that I can't quite believe I am letting out of my hands. I am a saver. I get sentimental.
But I am getting rid of that dark red wool dress that I bought soon after I moved to Gone West, the one I wore to T.'s wedding and on my first date with B., because I have this wool allergy now, and I will never be able to wear it again, I don't think. Even my wool coat causes itchy sores on my neck if I don't have a scarf to keep the wool from my skin.
I am getting rid of that black pullover jacket that I bought in Montreal before I moved to Rwanda, that I wore almost every single day because Rwanda was much colder at night than I expected. It has filled my drawer for almost a decade, but I have a softshell now, and the old jacket is too short for my torso.
I am getting rid of those red kikoi pants that I bought in Kenya on my way back from South Sudan, the ones that shrunk in the wash just a little and are too short for me now.
It almost physically hurts to get rid of these pieces of clothing that saw me through so much, but unless I plan to get a bigger house every time I move, it must be done. I have far too many clothes as it is, and far too many books, and far too many pieces of paper.
My friend S. is going to come over and look through my clothes on Sunday. I will feel better if things go to a good home with her. At least they won't feel lonely and rejected, then.