I know most of you who read my blog (hi Mama!) do so through your reader of choice so you really can’t see what I’m talking about right now. But, if you’re feeling particularly saucy and adventurous, you should click over to the actual blog itself. Because guys? Things are looking GOOOOOOD.

I’ve been blogging a lot more recently (clearly) and as I’ve been wandering around, I realized how neglected the poor blog had become. Barely readable, broken links, etc. So I’m cleaning up around here. I’m going to update the sidebar with some more people who truly inspire me with their words, their pictures, and their existence. I am even going to venture through and categorize my posts (all of them) so that I can find things better.

It’s a good project. It’s also avoiding a bigger, more sadder project.

There are boxes in our garage right now. This is not a metaphor. There are actual boxes in our garage. When Clay moved my stuff from Slim’s house to our house, he very kindly stacked the boxes on one wall, neatly. He told me to take my time, they would be there when I was ready to go through them, but that he didn’t want me to have to see them every day if I didn’t want to.

(Sidebar: Love my roommates.)

At first I thought it was a little silly. Why would it be sad to unpack boxes of my things? I’d already asked Slim to keep the things that would make me sad. The necklace he gave me a few days before we broke up, in particular. The cards that talked about our future and our love for each other. You know, the big stuff. Why would boxes full of clothes and measuring cups make me sad?

I went into the garage that first day to start going through the boxes. I needed to find the charger for my iPod shuffle and knew it was in one of the boxes. You guys. I had no idea. I was wrong about the boxes. The first thing I saw was a paper grocery bag full of Maizie’s toys. I sat down on the garage floor and began going through them, picking out one or two things to bring inside for her. Then I saw it. The present “Maizie” had given him for Hanukkah two years ago, the stuffed blue bone that says “Kosher.” And I started to cry.

I wish I could tell you I was brave. I so wish I could tell you that I was gutsy and ballsy and brave and that I went through all the boxes right then, dealing with my sadness like a grownup.

I can’t though. I ran. Bolted. Threw down the toys and slammed the garage door, locking it to keep the sadness contained. Then I crawled into my bed and cried for a very very very long time.

Now I have a pattern. When I think of something I need to find in the boxes (iPod charger, passport, Bananagrams) I stand at the garage door for about 10 minutes, giving myself a pep talk that goes something like this:

Me to Me: Don’t be a wuss, don’t be a wuss, don’t be a wuss.

Then I get brave, open the door, run in, choose a box, dig through it furiously. And if I don’t find what I need in that box? I run back into the house and slam the garage door, locking it behind me. Then I have another conversation with myself:

Me to Me: Coward.

Then I cry.

Lather, rinse, etc.

I know I should be kind to myself. I know the boxes aren’t the issue. It’s what they represent that makes me sad. See, most of my stuff was at his house because when I moved from my old apartment to Clay and Victoria’s house, I didn’t have much room in my new space. So we agreed it made sense to move most of it to his house, since I’d be moving in soon anyway. So it makes sense. The French press isn’t a French press; it’s a reminder of Saturday morning brunches at home while he teased me about how much bacon I would eat. The grey sweatshirt blanket isn’t a blanket; it’s the first gift he ever gave me, a gift I loved so much, even when Maizie commandeered it for her bed. Those are the actual “big stuff”, the stuff I took for granted. Every item in each box represents a memory, a part of our relationship. I didn’t know how much it would hurt me to see those things boxed up together, waiting to be dealt with.

I can’t though. Not today. And probably not tomorrow. Because as much as I try to pretend, I’m just not strong enough. So I’ll avoid. I’ll work on cleaning up the blog, sorting through old words and old sadnesses and happiness. Perhaps I’ll remind myself of how strong I used to be and will draw on that old strength to deal with the boxes. But until I am able, they can just sit in the garage and I’ll play the dig and dash game for a little longer. But I’m not going to beat myself up about it anymore.

Sometimes you just have to be the girl lying on the garage floor, crying over boxes.