extra baggage

Moving really makes one take stock of her life, as measured in material possessions. When I left New York at the beginning of the year, maybe never to return, I was overwhelmed and drowning in boxes and styrofoam peanuts and packing tape. I must've spent the equivalent of a small country's GNP on overweight luggage, shipping and storage costs. At the end of it all, I once again swore that upon my next inevitable move, it will never be this painful again.

my little lane on Wualai St

Then I was transported to Chiang Mai, a land from a whole different time period, like perhaps, the days before modern civilization (exaggerate much? nah). My house was simple and my closet minuscule. Suddenly I was hard-pressed to find a reason to break out my 2 pairs of high heels and bother with flat-ironing my hair, as in "what do you mean there are no society parties here?" Or perhaps more devastatingly, "what do you mean there are NO CUTE BOYS here??!" I was surrounded by hippies and backpackers everywhere! OK, there was the occasional well-groomed, well-styled, clean-smelling boy here and there, but for the most part, di ko type, or just not for me. Or they were gay. And then the joke turned on me, when I had to start buying hippie clothing in the local street markets that was more appropriate for sweating all day in the Thailand dust. And then I actually grew a fondness for long flowy skirts and wearing the same flip-flops everyday. I even had a flip-flop tan on my feet.

Not that I was a total ultra diva pre-Chiang Mai. I mean hey, I've been camping once! I knew how to rough it, sometimes! But this was kinda new to me. This house full of girls who expected that the contents of one backpack would last them 4 months and 6 different countries. That's when I had to learn to let go of all that wasn't important. Without forgoing my personal hygiene of course. Or sacrificing my lipstick. I still need beautification products! But within some reason.

Now that I'm finally unpacking my suitcases into a real closet in a real apartment again after half a year, I'm wondering how I've accumulated so many things when really, all I needed to get by on everyday was the contents of just one (OK fine, 3 suitcases OK!). I'm fixing up my new apartment, thinking about drapes and new ottomans, and flipping through Ikea catalogs wondering what kind of dining set defines me as a person? (as the pre-Brad Tyler Durden wonders in Fight Club) And then again, I stop and realize that I don't... really... care.

It's a new mantra that's permeated other facets of my life as well. Not the stoner/slacker kinda apathy. But more like, give importance in your life to things that really matter, and less to those that don't. And somewhere in my dim little dome, a lightbulb went off, like... duh! Seems simple enough. But not as simply executed in real life.

My happiness is important to me. So if that means tossing out material goods that are weighing me down, boys that break my heart, distractions that hold me back, frenemies that are more drama than love, then I do it, and I've stopped looking back.

But once in a while, the battle within resumes, between rationality and my irrepressible weakness for hot new shoes. Shoes make me happy. Shoes, and of course plane tickets. If that's how it has to be, so be it. And I'm happy.