Storage Unit as a Metaphor for (My) Life

If I am going to take an honest look at myself (and what is a blog for if not self-indulgent introspection) I have to admit that I am a newly recovered commitment-phob.  I have always liked having an escape hatch whether it’s from a date, a party or in this case a big move that had me shaking in my boots.  I claim that I was so ready to move to Boston nearly a year ago, but in fact I have been keeping a little secret…in Quincy…a storage unit with all my earthly belongings from my past life in New York City.  I sold most of my furniture when I left Manhattan, but there were some things that I didn’t want to part with or unpack into my Beantown apartment (which is owned and co-inhabited by a dear friend from growing up), just in case this whole Boston thing didn’t work out.  I have spent a good deal of money keeping these things somewhere, anywhere — just in case I had to high-tail it to who-knows-where. At first I told myself that it was smart to keep them, in case living with Erin hurt our friendship (which is far more important to me than a place to sleep), or if at some point a globe that has the U.S.S.R. on it became essential to my existence.  I have a massive tripod and a didgeridoo, board games and lamps.  I have probably 100 books in that storage unit, most I have read, some I have no desire to.

But last night walked down the dark, narrow hall to the storage unit, opened it up and took pictures of nearly everything (I’m actually going to keep the globe and didgeridoo) and put them on craigslist.  I am happy and looking towards the future, and don’t need that escape hatch anymore.

Anyone want to buy a microwave?

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