I've made several moves in my life, and the saddest part for me is always boxing up my books. My husband always delicately hints that maybe we could throw some of the books out, but he knows he's treading on dangerous ground with that suggestion. I'm generally gung-ho about minimizing our stuff, de-cluttering, and cleaning out. Nothing makes me happier than seeing the overflowing trash bags going out the door after a good cleanse. But when it comes to my books, I am a hoarder. I don't care if they are cheap paperbacks with broken spines and yellowing pages. I don't care if I've already read them. I don't care if I will probably never read them again. They are my books, my own, my precious. I'm a bit obsessive about them. Nothing makes me happier than to see all my books arranged in neat and gleaming rows, properly displayed on a sturdy bookshelf. It is the one true joy of material possession (that and a cute pair of shoes).
So yes, I always get a little sad about boxing up my books, especially as it will be a few months before I see them again. I know it's irrational, but I get separation anxiety.
The current state of my bookshelves.
What makes it even worse is knowing about the two boxes of books in the nursery closet that never got unpacked from our move here three years ago. Plus the box of books sitting in my parent's storage shed, and the other box of books I lent to my sister a while back, which ended up moving with her to Oregon. They feel like little children that I have lost and scattered about, and there is the constant fret about when and how I will get them all back together again.
Books were not meant to be in boxes, and I will not be satisfied until I get them out.
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