While doing a little spring cleaning late one April morn., I came across a lovely hatbox stuffed in the corner of my catchall room. When I opened it, I let out a muffled scream partly from fright and partly from excitement. In this hatbox was a decade's worth of skinny ties not to mention a few of the bolo versions made popular by New Kids on the Block. My, what memories those ties held in their noose like knots. . . the homecoming dances, school pictures, first dates, all marked by a tie and all laid out before me.
Looking around my clutter I noticed more modern artifacts from my distant past: the bag of "Happy Flowers" I decorated my first car with, the Wham album I used to stare dreamily at while jamming in my parent's basement and the stack of novels I've been meaning to get to. Being surrounded by all this memorabilia got me wondering. . . If a Vesuvius-like volcano exploded and encapsulated my room as is, what would future generations think of me? Would they thing of me as a god-like person because I owned many narrow ties or as just a man at the end of his rope? Perhaps they would say I had poor taste in music but was a well-read scholar. When it comes to the stuff we fill our lives with -- are we the things we buy?
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