I have an obsession with boxes. It's takes a tremendous amount of willpower to not pick up every great box that's thrown away at my office and bring it home and stack it in the garage with all my other great boxes. I'm certain I'll need that one particular box at some point and I'll rue the day I didn't grab it and rescue it from the trash pile.
I think my obsession stems from the way I pack when I have to move. Although I've only moved twice in the last 20 years, the flashbacks continue. Everything is wrapped in bubble paper, boxed, taped and labeled. The thought of placing anything other than my computer, plants or lamps in a car, truck or van unboxed and unbubblewrapped makes me sweat.
So, I have a garage full of boxes. Wonderful boxes. Perfect for mailing things. For example, if I were to have to mail a Christmas package to my brother's family in Arkansas, I could go in the garage and choose the perfect box. That's what any sane person would do. Right?
Of course, I said "sane" person. Four times this weekend, my mind blew a fuse. The first three fuses went in rapid succession when, while watching Dream Girls then Drowning Mona, I couldn't remember the names of John Lithgow, Destiny's Child or Will Ferrell. The fourth blown fuse occurred at Target when I bought a box to mail a Christmas gift.
I didn't even realize the absurdity of buying a box until I finished wrapping it for mailing, grabbed an empty Amazon.com box sitting on the floor right next to the wrapped-for-mailing box and carried the empty box to Box Heaven in my garage. The bolt of lightening hit me as I was staring at my mountain of boxes looking for the perfect spot for my newest little empty treasure.
"I just bought a box. I actually bought a gotdamn box. Sonuva Will-Ferrell-Destiny's-Child-John-Lithgow! Al Gore is going to be pissed."