I’ve been going through a lot of stuff lately.
I don’t mean that in the figurative sense, like “Man, I’ve really been going through a rough time”.
I mean it in the literal sense.
My sister and her fiancé just broke up. One of my best friends and her fiancé broke up the same day. Both are in the process of moving.
The lease on my apartment is nearing its end, so I know I’ll be moving again soon. I never even finished unpacking from the first move.
My already overstuffed living room has become downright impassable, due to an artificial Christmas tree that I can’t get back in its box.
With three grandparents passing in two years, every conversation I have with my parents is about what to do with their stuff.
The majority of my earthly possessions are still back in Arkansas. Maybe. Hopefully. Otherwise, some stranger is enjoying my china and Ferragamo loafers as we speak. Or worse, those things are all in a landfill, serving nobody at all.
I want to go back and try to get all of that stuff, but my car is on its last legs, and I want to be on more solid footing before I replace it. The ol’ Volvo is great for puttering around town, but I don’t know that it’s in a position to handle ten hours of interstate driving anymore. Plus, where the hell would I put everything if I could go get it? I’m already unable to walk through my own damn living room.
And so, I have a lot of stuff on my mind right now.
So, so much stuff.
…
It’s weird, processing stuff in the form of stuff.
Day in and day out, stuff usually exists in a context.
Lilly dresses and Lacoste polos hang in a neatly organized closet, above the rack of Ferragamo loafers. A person’s china sits in the china cabinet; the crystal illuminated by a light overhead. My grandparents’ things were all part of a grander schema; the plates and mixing bowls and knickknacks and lamps all part of the wonderland that defined my childhood.
In context, things are wonderful. Magical. Filled with meaning.
Divorced of context, stuff mostly becomes a burden; yet another thing to be dealt with. Yet another expense to manage.
And right now, I feel like I’m trying to reconcile those two visions of stuff.
I don’t know how I feel about the things I left back in Arkansas. I don’t know how I feel about some of the things I have now. I don’t know how I feel about my continued desire to buy more stuff, to keep consuming for the sake of consuming.
Because trust me, I’m still the ultimate consumer.
I still spend all of my free time dreaming of Belgian loafers, and the next car I want to buy, and British campaign furniture. I dream of the rugs I want to buy to replace old rugs. I dream of the sofas I want to buy, even though I have no place for additional sofas. I scour the thrift stores, forever looking for the designer gems of another time, and the perfect madras shorts, and just the right fur coat. Settling, I accumulate Talbot’s dress after Talbot’s dress despite having no practical need for 536 office-appropriate shift dresses.
I buy the things for the life I have now, and I buy things for the life I want to have in the future, and I buy things for the life I used to have. I buy things for the life I used to dream of, and for futures that I never dreamed of, but that seemed statistically probable.
I own 26 pairs of Nike shorts, with a dozen additional pairs back in Arkansas. I used to have no fewer than four full sets of china. My fiancé currently has two sets; neither are mine.
Those belonged to a different past, with a different wife. A different wife who was supposedly kind of like me, until she wasn’t.
All of this to say, stuff abounds. Stuff that I don’t know what to do with. Stuff that I don’t know how I feel about. There’s stuff that I miss, and stuff I’m stuck with, and stuff that I feel guilty for not missing.
In my first marriage, I accumulated lots of old, heavy stuff. Stuff that took up lots of space, and had survived a few world wars. Stuff that added weight, heft, a sense of permanence to a marriage that was anything but.
I think on some level, I understood this. I hoped that I could paper over a flimsy relationship built on nothing with items that suggested a greater depth. I hoped that lots of solid mahogany furniture could fix that fact that our marriage was being held together with cardboard and some off-brand Scotch tape that wasn’t quite as durable as the real thing.
Stuff was our only hope; a love for stuff was the primary thing that had brought us together in the first place, and as our consumer tastes started to diverge, it marked the beginning of the end.
Before that, stuff had always been my ticket to something better.
Other kids were better looking. Other kids were better at sports. Other kids knew how to say the right things at the right times. But I could buy the giant box of Crayola in kindergarten. I could buy the Abercrombie sweaters in junior high. I could buy Prada in high school.
I had an indulgent saint of a mother, and decent consumer taste: I liked to hope that this combo could make up for some of my more obvious shortcomings.
…
Now, stuff assures me that I’m prepared. Stuff assures me that I can provide for others.
Need to borrow a coat? I’ve got 15. Need $10? Check the pockets of that borrowed coat. Need a cheeseburger? Shit, check the coat pockets again. Pretty sure McDonald’s doesn’t really go bad.
Worried that the internet is going to like, stop existing? I’m pretty sure that between the fiancé and I, we have 97% of the total world’s knowledge sitting on our bookshelves. I’ve got at least 500 pages on the architectural history, accessibility innovations, and safety concerns surrounding public toilets.
Need artwork to dress up a new space? I’ve got a dozen original castoffs to share. Take a picture frame, too.
I like to be prepared for every possible fashion trend. Every possible occasion. Every theme party and dress code. Why are we having a Slutty Ancient Egyptian Mummy party when we’re all old enough to wear Naturalizer flats to work? Who cares. I want to be ready.
Stuff is practical. Stuff is impractical. Stuff helps a person fit in. Stuff helps a person help others. Stuff gets in the way of fitting in or helping others—the same stuff that was so useful, and so tasteful, and so perfect for a combined 9,000 sq. ft. of house is now far too much stuff for two people living together in 900 sq. ft.; it’s hard to throw a good dinner party when the dining table is larger than the dining room. It’s hard to offer a guest room when the guest room is filled to the ceiling with boxes.
And yet, even as I’m drowning in stuff, even as I’m thinking about the stuff I need to figure out a way to go get, even as I’m thinking about the stuff that needs to be sold, I’m still thinking about new stuff.
Sure, the last pair of Tod’s loafers didn’t fix anything, but I think that’s just because they were the wrong color. The last Tiffany bracelet broke, but won’t a blue box make me feel special? I have 27 silk scarves already, but if Hermes couldn’t make a person happy and successful, how would they still be in business?
And so, the march of stuff will continue. As long as there is life, there will be more stuff.