There’s nothing like packing up all your worthless possessions to remind you how cool you are.

 

A lot of people bang on about moving house like it’s the worst thing on earth you could have to endure. And I understand that to a degree – you have to do things instead of lay down, and there’s a lot of wiping involved. But the actual packing and boxing of one’s personal goods? That’s hardly a chore for someone with stuff as cool as I have and a memory as selective as mine is.

 

I’m actually kind of enjoying it. This time I’m actually using boxes instead of precariously stacking my breakables in those Princess Polly bags we inexplicably hoard as sturdy yet depressing status symbols so when we unpack our new housemates know they’re living with a classy bitch who can afford to shop at stores which have fancy paper bags. I usually jut shove everything that can’t shatter into a giant garbage bag and cram it into the boot of my Camry and go on my way.

 

But this time I’m doing it properly, by wrapping glassware in newspaper, placing them carefully into boxes and labelling them accordingly. And I have to say that I’m quite enjoying this. Not only do I get to look at my cool personal goods, but I also get to wrap things like I’m one of those women with wealthy husbands who work in homewares shops for social reasons (essentially Prude and Trude). But then I get the pleasure of categorising my life into boxes.

 

I’m not sure if compartmentalising your life is cause of concern or will earn you an achievement sticker from your psychologist (I’ve just sent a test to my friend studying her masters in clinical psych, so I’ll let you know*), but compartmentalising your possessions is a real thrill (if you have nothing else going on in your life, hence my elation).

 

Already I have two boxes from my kitchen/living area packed away. One says “fragile – frivolous glassware”, which is essentially a bunch of steins, French-style champagne glasses and some delicate tumblers I absolutely don’t need but picked up for a bargain. The other box is labelled “hipster party accessories” which contains bunting made from scrap fabric, two jugs to be used for Instagram-worthy cocktails, vintage scotch glasses and mini milk bottles (these were actually from a pack I picked up at the dump shop; I think there was a juice supplier that went bust and I reaped the benefits).

 

I actually had to put a stop to my little spree after running out of newspaper (but I know where I can pick up more, eh?) but I think more than anything it was delayed gratification. Like when you save a piece of cake until after you finish work or put off watching a new episode of something until after you’ve showered and put the dishes away – it’s a little treat I am setting aside for my future self. A dangling carrot to get through a busy Monday, if you will.

 

Because I am already daydreaming about the next few labels I’ll be making with my Nikko:

Horse-related knick knacks

Swan figurines

Novelty crockery that looks like it’s not crockery

Tedious glassware I received as gifts

Pictures of people I don’t yet hate in frames from op shops

Assorted containers to use as vases and tell the world I’m unconventional

Candles and associated goods

 

These are all categories of items I thought of off the top of my head. It doesn’t take into account all the forgotten treasures I have hidden in my drawers and cupboards.

 

In fact, I just opened a draw in my desk to discover that I own a harmonica. A harmonica! I had this sitting in a drawer, on the bottom shelf of my mind. And this joy giving, completely un-annoying find may not have been uncovered for years had I not have had to move. Thanks to unpacking the very same drawer I also was reminded of my uni graduation thanks to a bunch of hard-copy photos; discovered my formal partner was either subconsciously filthy or consciously very filthy but incredibly sly as evidenced by his hand making what appears to be the barracuda sign in our portrait; and was reminded that I’m not a total piece of shit thanks to a slightly tattered print out of comments from supervisor on my last ever uni assignment.

 

Maybe I’m a Sentimental Sally because I recently watched the Playschool 50^th anniversary special or maybe I’m delirious from a lack of sleep and a lingering head cold, but I can’t help but think that this is all good stuff. Maybe by emptying our drawers and cupboards and packing everything into boxes is the best way to unpack our lives. Maybe, by taking stock of all your possessions and deciding what to keep, throw away or store in a trunk for another few years, you’re best placed to decide what you love and what you need to get rid of from your life and what trash you don’t think you can deal with right now. Maybe moving is the ultimate live overhaul. Or maybe that’s all bullshit.

 

All I know is that I now have a harmonica, which will not go back into a drawer. It’s going into my handbag, for emergencies.

 

*I’ve since been told that compartmentalising isn’t the greatest if you’re doing so to supress negative emotions or painful memories. She says it’s best to find healthy ways of expressing such feelings. As such, it’s bloody lucky that I’ve also come across my novelty one-piece collection while moving. Because if there’s a healthier way to express one’s feelings than interpretive dancing in a fringed leotard while playing the harmonica, I’d like to hear it.