I loved my silver Mercedes with extra wide rims (yeah I know it’s tacky but I loved it.)
Still when I had to let it go, after all bringing your car halfway around the world usually isn’t a good idea, it wasn’t all too bad.
Neither was getting rid of designer clothes and shoes, my custom made chair or gadgets I had bought and cherished over the years. In fact it felt remarkably good donating books and clothes, selling furniture and throwing away beauty products even though I only parted with the things I absolutely couldn’t put in storage at my brothers place.
And now, seven weeks down the road a funny thing has dawned on me – nearly two months after I almost cried my eyes out giving away my great-grandmothers table (with a promise to get it back if I ever changed my mind) I haven’t missed one single thing of the items I packed or gave away. NOT ONE THING.
Realizing this both made me overjoyed but also a bit sad as I reflected – why do we spend our life collecting stuff? Shouldn’t we collect adventures in stead?
For me the answer is a loud and clear – hell yeah!
I do, however, realize it is not for everyone to part with 97% of your belongings and travel to a remote to country in South-East Asia. It’s not to everyone’s liking and it shouldn’t be. But at the en of the day, isn’t a fun evening, a good experience or a lovely conversation worth more than a pair of Louboutins? (And I have absolutely NOTHING against Louboutins, quite the contrary in fact.)
But isn’t a great story worth more than yet another watch to measure your pulse? Again, the answer for me is a no-brainer; I’d rather have experiences and stories than stuff.
So why do we collect? Does it give a sense of security; does it give some kind of pleasure other than the immediate rush of getting a pair of Louboutins?
I honestly don’t know. Will I miss all my belongings a year from now? Have no idea, and these days I really don’t care. These days I usually take my dinner on the beach as I watch the sun set. The meal costs me around $2 and the taste can compete with a lot of the nice restaurants I have been to around the world, the chair is plastic, not leather and not an Arne Jacobsen. But the rug beneath my feet, see that’s a different story. As I kick off my flip-flops and step in to the soft, warm sand it becomes very clear that the rug is oriental in the true sense of the word.