This MVP Floats a Regal Tackle of Another Kind: Books

I briefly attended an impromptu Super Bowl party tonight. Shortly after the game started, the men quickly rallied around the flat-screen with their food and beer, while the women congregated in the kitchen, as always, sniffing the milk carton mid-conversation before filling up the baby's bottle or carelessly puncturing tops of juice boxes with the accompanying straws. Once in a while the women would poke their heads out to peak at the game or referee the latest squabble among the preschoolers abound, trying to prevent the inevitable "It's past my bedtime but I will not go to bed!" meltdown.

I could barely pay attention. All I could think about, as I walked around the apartment with a glass of wine in hand, was how I had to repack the twenty-something boxes of books I had taped up the night before. All because I had a major realization today: I really do want to make a fresh start. And, unfortunately, no dictionary meaning of "fresh start" includes twenty-something Fresh Direct boxes of used books.

What I envision when I make the move, is a clutter-free home that's easy to keep clean and free of adornation that suffocates. Instead, I'd like a clean and practical home that will allow me to travel freely and return to comfort, not dusting; one where you can clearly see yourself and be yourself and not get lost in a swallowing swamp of things. A house that's a simple background to all the love that will decorate it.

Unfortunately the biggest obstacle between me and this imagined haven is printed matter. The amount of books, photos, magazines, notebooks, journals, postcards, letters and binders filled with even more paper I've collected in the past fifteen years is, on one hand, awe-inspiring. I remember where and how I came to own each piece, how much of it I read or used, what it means to me. On the other hand, this haphazard collection feels like an insurmountable mountain of clutter.

I've been going through it for over a month now and today I realized that I got it all wrong. Although I've been able to gift, donate or sell a good chunk of the books and magazines in the past couple of weeks, I wasn't happy with the quantity of boxes I was amassing in my bedroom. Today, with help from an impartial friend, I broke the seal. I had to change the question I was asking from "why do I want to keep this book?" to "will I ever read this book again?" and "if I had to reference anything contained in this book, could I find it online?"

So I chucked my beloved Dictionary of Financial Terms and a couple of cook books with never-cracked spines. Many will-never-be-read-again novels found their way into the donation box, joined by will-never-read books on obscure periods in history. Zen Habits' Leo Babuata says that we often keep books as trophies or mounted animal heads to show how much we've read and how smart we are. I decided that I have too much of just plain old life to tackle ahead of me. I have to let go of a Netflix-like library that stresses me out.

The Giants won while I was sorting. I could care less so I watched the latest episode of The Biggest Loser instead, hoping to multitask some inspiration in order to lose the last twenty pounds of "baby weight" before I make the move.

Confession #3: I haven't been to the gym in six months, minus a fifteen-minute session on my friend's eliptical trainer over Christmas weekend.

Confession #4: Many inscribed books met their maker today as I made my way through what's left of the library. Two of them were given to me by my husband and beautifully signed. Sorry honey, I figured you'd prefer the clutter-free paradise I vow to build when we meet again.