Vacuuming my living room the other day, I started feeling nostalgic about my first apartment. I was in my 20s, and it was my first time really living on my own. It was a tiny studio in a crummy part of town. And although I don't miss the neighborhood or the shabby building, I do miss one thing about that apartment.
It was empty.
In my hazy recollection, there was a bed, a table and chair, and not much more.
And today, maneuvering the vacuum around tastefully matched furniture, electronic devices, sleek floor lamps, tons of books, heaps of baseball caps, the thought crossed my mind: How did I end up with so much junk?
Thirty-five years after my first apartment, the years have brought me more than maturity, marriage and a mortgage. They've brought stuff.