the bins in the attic and the pain involved in letting go

So with the prospect of relocating in the next few months (did I forget to mention that news?)  I have been thinking about how unpleasant it is going to be to move all of the crap that we have accumulated since we built this house. 

Four stories of crap.

Oh my house isn't crazy big, but we do have a finished basement and attic, besides a regular upstairs with five bedrooms and a normal downstairs.  That's a lot of rooms to pack.  And not one of those rooms are empty.  They are actually far from empty. 

Besides the piano, the things that I have been dreading moving the most are my bins in the attic.  You know, the bins of clothing in varying sizes that I always hoped to get my chunky old self back into one day, that I have been carting around with me and adding to since I was eighteen or nineteen years old.  TWENTY ONE YEARS OF CLOTHES.  Bins and bins and bins of clothes in every size, including maternity.   Did I ever mention that I have a hard time throwing things away?  Yes, yes I did.

So I decided that I am not going to move the bins.   This is a monumental step for me.  No, I am not going to accidentally leave them behind for the poor unsuspecting family that is buying our house.  I am actually (ugh) going to take them down (sigh) and really, truly get rid of them once and for all (the pain!). 

The last time I was up there eyeballing the bins, I saw the cutoff jorts (jean shorts) in a size 6 that I wore at the crazy weekend reunion concert that was WOODSTOCK in 1994.  Ahhhh, the memories.  I loved those jorts.  And the Dave Matthews Band concert T from way back when they were just starting out.  I kinda remember that awesome concert... it's a little hazy.  Wait a minute.  I could probably make a few bucks on that... 

Then I uncovered the $89 pants that I recall buying from the Limited in every color (omg.  why would I do that, and how in the world did I justify spending that money?).  Those pants were in a size 8.  Sigh.  The good old days.  Yeah, the thing is, even if I ever squeezed my butt into a size 8 again, I wouldn't touch those high-waisted monstrosities with a ten foot pole!  I mean, they are almost as offensive as stone washed, pleated mom jeans.  

(that is not me)

Speaking of stone washed, I also found a pair of ripped acid washed (size 8) hideous jeans that look like some mutant version of skinny jeans.  They were so tight, I had to lay on the bed and use a fork to get the zipper up.  WHO LET ME WEAR THOSE Mom?!  Did I really look as hot as I thought I did?  And why on earth did I see fit to carry them from apartment, to house to house, etc. til I was an old Mom?

Gah!  Green Z-Cav pleated pants that I tight rolled with gusto (I was a master tight-roller in the day, in fact, I have to confess that I am almost positive that I invented tight-rolling in the 80's).  Did I seriously think that they would come back into style?  That is a good question.

And I am NOT going to answer it. 

Because I am going to get rid of EVERYTHING!  Except that wooly sweater I wore when I went out to Boulder in the 90's... I loved that sweater.  And those baggy boyfriend jeans!  They were so cool!  Oh and that denim jacket!  I am positive that they will be "in" again... and that awesome flannel shirt... and the parachute pants?  huh?  maybe... wait!