the passage of my life is measured out in shirts

In what amounts to materialistic suicide, I recently moved into the tiniest apartment that I've ever lived in.

Technically it's a one bedroom, but to get to it, one has to walk through the restroom. And the kitchen is actually a tiny alcove off of the tiny living room. There is a big old porch and a giant roof deck off of the bedroom (with an amazing view of the local lake, mountains, and downtown) that makes it OK.

In the year since I moved out of my house (divorce will do that) I seem to have accumulated a lot of furniture. Plus all the books and records and CDs and knick knacks and artwork and pots and pans and odd art pieces, well somethings gotta give.

So, selling off some old books and comics and discs and tables, giving back the rocking chairs that were on extended loan, and tossing out old papers and magazines (8 boxes worth so far!) is clearing out the space a bit and making me feel all zen-like (sort of).

I also found 4 (4!) large storage bins of old clothes. Mostly shirts that:

1) No longer fit (no longer the skinny speed freak punk)

2) Are damaged in some way (was I planning to make a quilt?)

3) Have great sentimental value.

Number three is the kicker. I mean I get a "lemon cookie dipped in tea" kind of memory surge just looking at some of these shirts.

One is the red shirt with "8-balls" all over it that I wore to death in the '90's. Another is the purple Guayabera shirt last worn to my best friend's funeral. Various Hawaiian shirts worn when meeting Significant People in my life, another one that I wore on the first date with my now ex-wife and you get the picture as to why I cling to these.

But donating them? Selling them? I'm in a quandary.

I really do need the space...but then again, I could put aside some choice ones for my daughter to wear out when she's bigger.

If the moths don't get to them first.

If I don't turn them into a quilt first.

That means keeping them.

Rinse, repeat.