Little Guy decided he wanted to buy another BeyBlade top today. We had a discussion about the wisdom (or lack thereof) of spending $45 on a toy that will probably be popular for another two months. He conceded that it would be better to go to Target and get a garden-variety BeyBlade. On sale. So we walked Snuggler up to play rehearsal (which runs 2:30-6pm today, and again tomorrow), and kept walking.
It's 1.98 miles from our house to Target, according to Google Maps Distance Calculator. We got there and bought the top, and Little Guy said he wasn't sure his legs were up to walking home. While we were waiting for the bus I opened my wallet and realized that another family member had neglected to replace my transit card yesterday. So we walked back anyway, a bit more slowly than we'd walked before.
A top is small. It has a limited number of parts. We can find a home for it, even in the boys' room. But in general, my tolerance for further acquisitions is limited. After 15 years of living in the same 1200 square feet I am ready to jettison any toy I step on. I fantasize of sending the family away and renting a dumpster. I could discard a bag or three of belongings every day for a month and feel no regret. Given a three-fold increase in income, I would spend it primarily on donations, food and activities: things I don't have to store anywhere except in my belly or brain.
So dare I admit that my bedtime reading at the moment is Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things? (It's a library book; I did not buy it.) If you click on the link and scroll down the Amazon page, there are nine photos that act as a scale for assessing hoarding problems. After I got over the eye-popping disbelief, I found the pictures soothing. Perhaps my life is more under control than I thought.