After living in a rental home for the past six months, we have finally closed on a new house, leaving me to face the job I hate more than anything: I need to pack...again and unfortunately, that we didn't get rid of enough junk from the old house when we moved in here. As a result, I have to go down into the basement and out into the garage, open up boxes and toss a lot. Everyone has a tough time deciding when it's time to let certain things go.  We can't save every letter to Santa, every handprint memorialized in cement and every Fruit Loop Christmas decoration every kid ever made. Or, at least, I can't, but my husband is a sentimental fool.  At the closing when we sold our last house; the one we all loved, the one my kids grew up in, the one we said we'd never sell, he cried. He made me take pictures of every room; full of furniture and then empty and he walked the property by himself one last time. I was kind when we first moved here; respecting his already compromised emotional state, I let him keep this stuff.  This time, I'm not being so nice. So the other day, I got motivated and got started. The first few boxes I attacked were marked "Leslie and Mike's Memorabilia." I found my old diaries, prom dresses, letters from old boyfriends, and more pictures, birthday and anniversary cards than I care to admit having saved. I happily tossed most of it, but held onto some of those old boyfriend letters which are great for one’s self -esteem. Eventually, I started to get into my husband’s stuff.  If he sees sentimental value or possible future practical value in any object, it stays. For example, I have six sleds, yet no one sleds here anymore.  But, for the day when we finally need six sleds for all those grandchildren, there they'll be, out there in the garage piled behind the extra fence posts, the train table his dad made but is now falling apart, and the old ice skates that fit no one. I've got camping gear from 30 years ago, because he used it when his Boy Scout troop "hiked the AT."  I've got rotted hiking boots, and old cross country skis with boots that disintegrated years ago. But the worst is his own ever- meaningful "memorabilia."Sure, I have my share of poetry written for me, prom pictures etc., but this guy needs help. How many report cards does one need to save? Movie ticket stubs from Star Wars, 1978. I've lost count of the many camping and hiking pictures he has where he can't identify more than one person in the photo.There's a puppet that would cause any sane human being serious psychological problems, and then...wait for it...I have a lock of blond hair from some girl's head from a summer romance 35+ years ago. If I had to ask him to find the locks of hair I saved from all of his childrens’ first haircuts, he'd be at a complete loss, but this girl’s hair, he can get his hands on in under five minutes. I think every birthday and anniversary card he and I ever sent to each other is in some box.There are collages from infatuated girls, mix tapes, poems, and even notes passed in school that are so faded they are illegible.

When the dumpster gets delivered today, it’s all going in led by that lock of blonde hair. Following it will be a few of the pictures of her in a bikini when she was seventeen. (Even in my best years, I never looked like this. Who gets that tan? Seriously.)  I'll bet she looks terrible now. She probably dyes her hair as one is blonde forever, has cellulite and gained 70 pounds, is mean and hates kittens and baby smell. Like I said, it all goes today.  It's really for the best.  After all, it's all about closet space.When's the dumpster arriving in your life?  Is it time to clean out some of your past?