It was a pleasant 60-degree Sunday in early March, and my partner, Jamie, and I were busy decluttering our garage and patio in anticipation of our son’s 10th birthday bash. He had requested a Nerf-themed party, inspired by a friend’s recent celebration, where kids would run around our yard, patio, and garage, shooting foam darts at each other. While it wasn’t my dream party theme, it served as the perfect motivation for some much-needed spring cleaning.
Our garage had overflowed onto the patio. In our cozy home in Oregon, which is just shy of 1,000 square feet, we are a family of five living in close quarters. Despite moving across three different states during our time together, we hadn’t been diligent about getting rid of unnecessary items. Instead, we had consistently transported the same boxes from one location to another, never really taking the time to sort through them.
I wouldn’t classify us as hoarders; rather, we find it difficult to part with relics from the ’90s.
As Jamie opened a box, she squealed with excitement over her old prom dresses. The first one she pulled out was a sleek baby blue creation with puffed shoulders. Then came a black dress adorned with colorful, sparkly buttons. She reminisced about high school, recalling the dates and the beautiful moments associated with each dress.
I couldn’t quite relate, as I had skipped my prom altogether, being the rebellious type in high school. Just before the prom dress discovery, we unearthed an old Army jacket of mine that I wore nearly every day back then. Its back was adorned with safety pins and frayed patches of punk bands. A few stains, likely from my teenage acne, marked the sleeve.
Now in my mid-30s with three kids and a steady job, there’s no way I’d wear that jacket outside again. Yet, I slipped it on for old times’ sake. It fit just right. For a fleeting moment, I felt like the rebellious teen I once was.
This wasn’t the first time I had revisited my old jacket. Each time, I’d put it on and feel that rush of nostalgia—an exhilarating reminder of youth. That’s why I had clung to it, along with my snowboards, skateboards, and beanies featuring band logos. They didn’t have practical value but were tied to that carefree, tough-guy persona I once aspired to embody.
At that moment, as Jamie held up her dress while I wore my punk jacket, we looked like two thirty-somethings attempting to relive their twenties. But the reality was that it was no longer 1998; it was 2017. Had someone entered our garage, they might have viewed us as a couple of nostalgic individuals who hadn’t moved on from a decade where we felt invincible.
“We have to part with this stuff,” I urged. “We’ve been dragging it around for years. Even your parents stored it for a while. It’s time to let go.”
Jamie hesitated, holding up another dress, this one a vibrant purple. “But what if our daughter, Mia, wants it?” she replied. “She might want to wear it to prom.”
I chuckled, “I highly doubt Mia will want to wear your prom dresses from the ’90s. That’s like me expecting Tristan to wear my punk jacket to his first day of high school. Half those bands don’t even exist anymore. Let’s just move on.”
I could see Jamie’s understanding, yet her reluctance to let go of this piece of her past was evident. This struggle is one of those unspoken aspects of adulthood. Sure, raising kids, buying a house, and finishing college all play a role, but another significant aspect involves embracing the mundane realities of life—like trading in your punk attire for slacks and a polo shirt. It’s about accepting the practicality of driving a minivan, even if it makes you feel like an old fogey, or wearing yoga pants and Crocs for a weekend grocery trip.
Adulthood requires us to shed the remnants of our youthful selves—those cool CDs, prom dresses, and punk jackets. It’s about embracing your role as a parent and provider, just as passionately as you once embraced your high school scene.
Eventually, my jacket, along with my old snowboards and Bad Religion T-shirts, found their way into donation boxes. Jamie kept two dresses, insisting our daughters might want to use them for dress-up, though I sensed her sentimentality about them.
We had a Goodwill donation trailer just down the street, and I dropped off our items, watching as two volunteers unloaded them, treating our childhood treasures like just another contribution. I’m generally not a sentimental person, but seeing those items go stung a bit.
However, as a father in my 30s, it was worth the sacrifice for a clean and organized garage.
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In summary, embracing adulthood often involves letting go of our past selves and the items that remind us of who we used to be. It’s a bittersweet process but one that ultimately leads to a more organized and fulfilling life.