Emotional Maturity

Dear J-

Would I say down to Sunnyvale or up to Sunnyvale? It works out. It works out. Let’s not fret. The kids … the weekend. It all blurs together now, Monday morning. We had people over to the house for the first time yesterday and — people being my family, naturally — I dunno. Is everyone horrified at how small the space is? Or that we’ve managed to clutter it up so much? I need to put together a shopping list of things I’d like to get along with things I think I need and most of that has to do with long-term storage of junk I thought I needed at the time: part of that is computer stuff that’s not exactly re-salable, other stuff is just obsolete junk. I always end up thinking of the most worst case scenarios.

When it was over and the last guests had been ushered out theVet told me that it was nice and she had fun and oh, did I feel like a grownup now? I’d just woken up from a nap (on the couch with the boy watching Spiderman in some animated incarnation from the 80s) and said that no, not really: feeling grown up would mean being mature about this junk I pull: it’s little enough, here and there, but it adds up over time and there’s only so much I can flog off. It all revolves around the junk at some point, doesn’t it? I wonder if I can … but no. More junk. More stuff. Always ever forward, more junk and stuff.

I suppose I’d feel more mature if I knew what I really wanted and asked for it like an adult rather than sneaking around and getting a million lesser, cheaper copies just because it’s a bit more convenient or flies under the radar. Did I ever tell you the cheap tripod story, which is a favorite of photographers? You either spend a fair amount now on the right tripod, or you spend a little bit many times trying to iterate into the right one. And while some of that is the learning curve more of it is just wanting to own more stuff, no matter what it is you actually want or use. That gets down to the heart of why I don’t feel terribly mature, no matter what else in this world.



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