The Nomadic Hoarder
Curry, incense, and automobile exhaust fumes greeted me as I stepped out of my SUV and back into the current chapter of my life. Ahh, the sweet scent of apartment life. Apartment life has a smell. Well, it has a lot of smells. The best part is that the fragrance changes daily. Variety. As I walk away and lock the vehicle, I wonder what dish was being made with curry. I don't wonder what the incense was masking. That's a page in someone else's life.
I lumber up the concrete and steel stairs. My feet ache. My body sighs. Another day has defeated me. My keys jingle as I unlock the door. The sound alerts the dogs that I am back. Charlie doesn't care. He hasn't cared about anyone walking through the door in a long time. He used to hump the couch cushions when we had guests. He doesn't do that anymore. I've been excited to have people visit, but Charlie's excitement was on a whole different level. Now, he just lays there wearing adult diapers for dogs. Melancholy dog life has a smell too. It's not a good smell. Lucy, on the other hand, jumps around uncontrollably as I wander inside. She looks like a prize blue marlin launching into the air on one of those fishing shows. Her excitement is in direct contrast to my despair.
I'm wandering. I am wandering through the habitat. My fingers are wandering through my hair. I am wandering through life. I am wandering through emotions. I am wandering through stress. I am wandering between houses and addresses. Charlie isn't wandering. He's just laying there like a slug in his diaper.
According to Wikipedia, a nomad is a member of a community of people without a fixed habitation. When I think of nomads, I envision the heat of the desert. I envision camels and sand. The sun relentlessly beating down on you during your constant travels. My feet ached as I lumbered up the stairs in sensible shoes. Nomads are wandering around the desert in huarache sandals. Who am I to complain? They have all of that nomading stuff to do. My mind wanders. Do nomads wear sunscreen? Nomad life, like apartment life must have a smell, right? I bet that smell is a cocktail of coconut oil and camel manure. I wonder what SPF nomads wear. I bet they wear Banana Boat SPF 15. That's a fearless option. I would expect nothing less of a nomad. Fearless.
According to Wikipedia's definition, I am a nomad. My wife, my kids, and I are a community of people without a fixed habitation. The dogs could technically qualify me as nomadic herder. I feel a sudden need to buy a camel, one of those desert robes, and a staff. I am going to embrace it. I'm going to own it. Nomad. I'll ride my camel down Highway 280 like a boss.
Truth is, I am more of a nomadic hoarder than a nomadic herder. I've always considered myself pretty good at purging unnecessary items. I have discovered over these past few weeks that I am not good at it. My wife rented a storage unit for the transition. A couple of weeks later she upgraded us to a larger unit because we have too many "valuables". Valuables like a plastic pink flamingo (ask my son, Trey), a 900 pound treadmill, stained patio furniture, a bucket of extension cords, a half dozen artificial Christmas trees, and God only knows what else. It's a cornucopia of crap that screams "You suck at purging!"
Charlie lifts his head and stares at me. I empathize because I know that will be me when I am elderly. Laying on the floor in my adult diaper. I will have good memories of the days when I had a nomadic family. I just hope that I will enjoy those memories as much Charlie enjoyed those couch cushions..
So here's what I know. To be a good nomad, you can't keep toting your crap around. I'm not a good nomad. You have to purge. Good nomads don't rent storage units. Good nomads don't have stained patio furniture. I want to be a good nomad. I want to travel free of plastic pink flamingos. I want to travel Over Yonder.
I lumber up the concrete and steel stairs. My feet ache. My body sighs. Another day has defeated me. My keys jingle as I unlock the door. The sound alerts the dogs that I am back. Charlie doesn't care. He hasn't cared about anyone walking through the door in a long time. He used to hump the couch cushions when we had guests. He doesn't do that anymore. I've been excited to have people visit, but Charlie's excitement was on a whole different level. Now, he just lays there wearing adult diapers for dogs. Melancholy dog life has a smell too. It's not a good smell. Lucy, on the other hand, jumps around uncontrollably as I wander inside. She looks like a prize blue marlin launching into the air on one of those fishing shows. Her excitement is in direct contrast to my despair.
I'm wandering. I am wandering through the habitat. My fingers are wandering through my hair. I am wandering through life. I am wandering through emotions. I am wandering through stress. I am wandering between houses and addresses. Charlie isn't wandering. He's just laying there like a slug in his diaper.
According to Wikipedia, a nomad is a member of a community of people without a fixed habitation. When I think of nomads, I envision the heat of the desert. I envision camels and sand. The sun relentlessly beating down on you during your constant travels. My feet ached as I lumbered up the stairs in sensible shoes. Nomads are wandering around the desert in huarache sandals. Who am I to complain? They have all of that nomading stuff to do. My mind wanders. Do nomads wear sunscreen? Nomad life, like apartment life must have a smell, right? I bet that smell is a cocktail of coconut oil and camel manure. I wonder what SPF nomads wear. I bet they wear Banana Boat SPF 15. That's a fearless option. I would expect nothing less of a nomad. Fearless.
According to Wikipedia's definition, I am a nomad. My wife, my kids, and I are a community of people without a fixed habitation. The dogs could technically qualify me as nomadic herder. I feel a sudden need to buy a camel, one of those desert robes, and a staff. I am going to embrace it. I'm going to own it. Nomad. I'll ride my camel down Highway 280 like a boss.
Truth is, I am more of a nomadic hoarder than a nomadic herder. I've always considered myself pretty good at purging unnecessary items. I have discovered over these past few weeks that I am not good at it. My wife rented a storage unit for the transition. A couple of weeks later she upgraded us to a larger unit because we have too many "valuables". Valuables like a plastic pink flamingo (ask my son, Trey), a 900 pound treadmill, stained patio furniture, a bucket of extension cords, a half dozen artificial Christmas trees, and God only knows what else. It's a cornucopia of crap that screams "You suck at purging!"
Charlie lifts his head and stares at me. I empathize because I know that will be me when I am elderly. Laying on the floor in my adult diaper. I will have good memories of the days when I had a nomadic family. I just hope that I will enjoy those memories as much Charlie enjoyed those couch cushions..
So here's what I know. To be a good nomad, you can't keep toting your crap around. I'm not a good nomad. You have to purge. Good nomads don't rent storage units. Good nomads don't have stained patio furniture. I want to be a good nomad. I want to travel free of plastic pink flamingos. I want to travel Over Yonder.
Comments
Post a Comment