Summer cleaning

This summer, my parents decided that it was time to replace the carpets in my sister's bedroom and my own. I was also instructed that my childhood furniture would be sold and the bedroom set that belonged to my grandmother would take my place. 

Of course, the opportunity to play with interior design is not one that I am to turn down. But I soon realized that new carpets and new furniture meant one thing: lots and lots of moving. 

College students are quick to associate with this pain; while we may love the lives that we live in those dingy first apartments and prison-like dorm rooms, the two most torturous days of the year are when we move in and out.

Packing up your entire life into boxes is strange enough--but in the case of packing up your childhood room, it's even stranger. You come across things that you have no idea why or how you ever came to possess it. More likely, you come across the smallest of things that trigger the strongest of memories. 

Unpacking was much more difficult than packing things up temporarily, as I was tasked with sorting through my things to decide what was worth keeping. Stuffed animals were bagged to be given away to younger family members, artwork from a class taken freshman year of high school was stashed into folders--yet one box remained that I struggled with. 

The box could not be lifted by one person. It had to be at least 30 pounds. And it contained my magazine collection that was established in early 2007. Six years of Vogue, Teen Vogue, Nylon and a smattering of others had added up without much notice. 

I've always had a love affair with magazines. My father introduced me to their magic at a young age, and I've never looked back. Yet as I looked at these magazines stacked up on my kitchen table like soldiers standing sentry, I wondered what purpose they still held. Yes, they are archives that can be treasured; they are tomes of style that may one day be considered rare and ancient. 

I live in New York for three-quarters of the year. These magazines sit in my childhood room during that time, doing nothing but collecting dust. So what should become of them? 

Eventually, I reached the decision that I would give them away. Subscribing to these magazines is what made me fall in love with fashion and writing, inspiring my desired career path. Yet they are no use to me if they sit untouched 3,000 miles away. It's hard to part with things that have extended meanings; it's hard to part with the pages that have set fire to an unending passion within me. 

But it's time. And now that I will soon be moving into my own apartment, perhaps it's time to start my own collection once more.