A year ago my parents re-carpeted their house. At the time I went around, cleared out everything from my old room and put all the “rubbish” into bags to be disposed of. Post re-carpeting, my room looks near the same as it used to be. Things that I had bagged up to throw out my mum had retrieved. E.g. the purple star clock that is BROKEN and that we bought from a market when I was 12, a photo of myself and an ex-bestie-now-mortal-enemy from my teenage years, a dolphin ring that my mum thought that she had bought for me [No mum, I got that from my ex when I was 18…].
Last week I popped around to visit my parents with bubsy. My mum mentioned that there was a drawer full of clothes that she didn’t know whether she should throw out or not. I had a look. The drawer contained underwear from when I was a teenager! Like, when I was, like, 15. Like, it’s, like, been, like, over 15 years ago! Some had frayed elastic, some were pilling. Seriously, and she didn’t know if she could get rid of them?!
The drawer also contained other underwear and bras that my mum had either bought on sale and I always refused to wear (think garish coloured satin underwear – I’m a cotton briefs kind of girl!) and ugly, lacy bras that were too big [“Well, they didn’t fit you then, maybe they fit now?” … “No, mum! They didn’t fit then and they don’t fit now!”]. Still, we had to go through them all sort into the throw out pile, the charity donations pile, and the, “Oh, they’re still good, I’ll give them to Aunty Josephine or her daughters [aged 35 and 37!]” pile.