Experiment: 30 Day Purge

Not exactly Hollywood Juice Diet Style. More like A&E Hoarders style. It's not quite so bad as to be like a mental/compulsive disorder, it's just I honestly can't be convinced to throw anything away. This hasn't been problematic, really, because I don't buy a lot of things to begin with. But even so, little trinkets manage to build up after the years, the few things I've purchased, things I've acquired, been given. Things just amass. Moral of, don't buy me gifts. Unless edible.

Action.
Each day for a month I will be forced (mutinously! by my own brain and hand!) to just get rid of something. Can it. Chuck it. Throw it the way of Nick Nolte. Currently, all my ephemera is hiding out in the "1/2" of our 2 and 1/2 bedrooms. Nicknamed, The Room of Requirement, because honest to you, everything you'd ever need to start a colony can be found within. Plus it's a weird yellow and we're not really sure what to do with it.

Exhibit A.

For "A Jerk."

My high school pager.


You know, clearly a staple of 15-year old life. So, you know, my all my celeb friends can get a hold of me. The friends I have, who for unknown reasons, wouldn't be with me at high school parties or boys' soccer games. Who'd have some urgently important piece of 411 that they'd just have to find a pay phone and alert me (this was before the days of truly consumer grade mobile phones).

The only other people besides lame high schoolers (Lindsey and I had identical Motorola models) who really carried pagers those days (1999) were dealers and doctors.

"Paging Doctor Aggen. Yeah we just wanted to alert you that Ben Panos was spotted at the Overland Park Sonic ordering a grilled cheese. Oh, and also, your favorite Third Eye Blind song is on the radio so hurry home and tape it."

My boyfriend would also send me little digital love messages*. Like the proto-text message. I think this pager was a bit twitter-like in its limitations, in that only messages of certain character counts were permitted.

*Like what, for instance? A new AAA battery can answer that question! Let's break into the archives of the late 90's.

TURTLE FACE.
CAN YOU COME OVER?
JOAN. OF ARC.
I MISS YOU, TURTLE FACE.
TURTLE FECES.

Romance, romance, romance.

Is this why I kept this useless bit of technology for so long? That a part of me couldn't part with the romance? These tiny love-notes? Or did I keep it because I thought it was kitchy? Or so I could like, totally Relate with Dennis the Beeper King? Or is it because I'm worried it'll swing back into vogue and I want to be ready at the onset?

I don't know that questions of this weight have easy answers.

I do know that having chucked this relic of 1999, I already feel the small pains of nostalgia, and question if I did the right thing.

Turtle Face.