Out of sight, out of mind. And out of socks
When Ari, 23, moved back home early this year, I told him to just park his things in storage instead of lumping it all home.
I pictured a storage locker full of computer parts and unmatched socks and I didn’t want either of those things back here. Unmatched socks make me nuts and I already have enough old computer parts that I’m too scared to throw away in case someone steals my identity and/ or book ideas. I’m aware that neither of those is very likely, but I collect hard drives like some people used to collect Beanie Babies.
We were sitting in the living room the other day, Ari in the only comfortable chair, me staring at the uncomfortable couch.
“I gotta get a new couch,” I said.
“You should get a really nice one, like mine,” Ari replied.
“I don’t know if I ever saw yours. Leather, right?”
“Yup. I looked for ages before I found one I love. It’d look good in here,” he mused.
“I’m not asking you to haul it here just to take it out again in a couple of months,” I replied. I’m subliminal like that. “Where’d you get it again? Kijiji?”
“No, I bought it new.” “You have a new leather couch in that storage unit?” “What do you think I have in there?” “Socks.”
“Are you kidding? I’m waiting for Storage Wars to show up. They’d throw up that garage door and yell, ‘Hey look at that couch! And that desk!’ And then they’d start bidding like crazy. And that’s before they even see the hunk of cherry wood at the back that I haven’t made into something yet.”
I’d forgotten about the furniture he makes. He takes huge slabs of cherry and sands them down forever, then applies endless layers of clear coat. His coffee table and desk are gorgeous.
“Any time I’ve seen that show, I’ve only seen them run up the door to find a pile of crap,” I told him. “I mean, how many velvet Elvis paintings do people need to pay to store?”
It was a rhetorical question, because everybody knows the answer is none. Velvet Elvis should never be hidden away, he should be displayed on an altar, especially if it’s young, hot Elvis and not sweaty, old, fat Elvis.
Storage units are dangerous. If you’ve ever painted your entire house at the same time (which means painting the insides of closets), you know how much detritus you can accumulate. I can barely be trusted with a junk drawer in the kitchen (I have two), let alone an offsite storage facility.
I’ve written in the past that nobody wants your china when you’re dead, and they likely don’t want your cherished big wooden furniture, either.
Your kids and grandkids don’t want massive armoires and bedroom sets in smaller condos or, worse yet, to truck them across the country as they chase jobs and dreams.
I know people who have moved the contents of storage lockers from one address to the next, over and over, never once using anything. Whether it’s out of guilt (“your grandmother always wanted you to have her dining room set”) or laziness, it still means paying to have an anchor around your neck.
Ari is busily house-hunting with a couple of friends, which means his couch will be out of storage soon. I opened the trunk of my car recently and found random sweaters. And socks.
None of the socks matched.