I just did a strangely therapeutic thing. I threw away my yearbooks. Yup, all of them, every grade from first to twelfth. And I’m here to tell you, it felt fantastic.
I have never been one to dwell on the past or hang onto memories. I learn from my experiences and move on. I am always looking forward to the next chapter, the next goal, the next challenge, whatever, as long as it’s next.
I am a purger by nature. My wife and I moved a lot during the first decade of our relationship, most of it work-related. On average, we moved about twice a year. And you know what sucks? Moving heavy shit from one place to another. And you know what really sucks? Moving heavy shit that you never use from one place to another.
We moved so often that we decided to implement some rules to make our transitions easier. First, we decided to own nothing that couldn’t be moved by a single person. No more sleeper sofas, only chairs and sectionals. Second, we invested in reusable bins instead of searching for cardboard boxes. That decision alone significantly reduced the headaches. Third, we would chuck or donate any non-seasonal item that we hadn’t touched in three months. But for some reason, certain items enjoyed immunity from that rule, yearbooks included.
I was taught growing up that memories matter. You’ll want to re-read those grade school love letters. You’ll want to revisit those pictures from vacations. You’ll want to recapture your youth by looking through yearbooks. I’m now pushing 40 and you know what I never want to do? Any of those things. And yet, I lug boxes of this crap from place to place, having never looked at any of them for more than a few seconds.
No more. I am done lugging around the past.
And so, I chucked it all. I threw away boxes of old letters and report cards. I threw away picture albums filled with vague things I barely remember. And most importantly, I threw away a stack of heavy yearbooks. I even took a few minutes to glance through them, wondering how I would feel. Not surprisingly, I didn’t feel a damn thing. I read notes and looked at pictures, all linked to people I don’t remember or care about. To be honest, it felt like snooping inside the life of a different person. And in a sense, I was. I’m not that person anymore, so why was I carrying him around?
That’s when I thought about Uncle Rico from Napoleon Dynamite, the ultimate man-child. I went to a small town high school where everybody married each other after graduation. I was one of the few that escaped and opted to explore the world, which expanded my perspective. Every year, that town gets smaller and smaller. I have grown as a person and I hunger for fresh insights. And as I fill my life with new experience, I have to make space by purging the backlog. In short, the yearbooks had to go.