The Boxes We Keep

I'm pretty good at getting rid of things.

At least in theory.

But there's one category of items that I apparently consider a long-term investment.

Empty cardboard boxes.

Not just any boxes, obviously. What kind of person do you take me for? Only the boxes that came with things we've actually bought.

It always starts out perfectly reasonably.

You unpack a new appliance and figure it's probably best to keep the box for a while. In case something's wrong with it. Or you need to return it.

Makes perfect sense.

Six years later, the box is still sitting in storage.

The warranty has expired. The appliance may have broken down, been replaced, or moved out of the house entirely.

But the box?

Still there.

And if anyone suggests throwing it away, I hear myself saying:

"But it's a really good box."

A really good box.

As though that alone were a quality that justified unlimited storage.

And the worst part is, I genuinely mean it.

The other day, I decided we should do a little decluttering in the attic.

It was my idea, which I think is important to mention considering how things eventually unfolded.

Adam was enthusiastic. Almost suspiciously enthusiastic.

He started taking things down from the shelves while I explained that we really needed to get better at getting rid of things we didn't need. It's also worth mentioning that he most definitely isn't the one who hangs on to things.

But enough about that.

Then he found the box from an old router.

"What about this one?"

I looked at it.

"Do we still have the router?"

"No."

"Oh."

That should reasonably have settled the matter.

But it was a very nice box. Sturdy, with a perfectly fitting lid and little compartments inside.

I pointed this out.

Adam put it back.

Not because he agreed with me, I suspect.

We continued.

Inside the next box were four smaller boxes, neatly stacked inside one another.

That was actually quite clever.

I'd clearly organized them that way to save space.

Which might have been even more effective if I'd simply thrown them away.

But hindsight is a wonderful thing.

On another shelf, I found the original packaging for an appliance we no longer owned. I couldn't even remember exactly what the appliance was.

The instruction manual was gone.

So was the receipt.

But the packaging had been preserved with a level of care I had apparently decided neither the receipt nor the instruction manual deserved.

By this point, Adam had started piling boxes near the stairs leading down from the attic.

I went through the pile.

One by one.

A few were returned to their shelves.

"Are you keeping all of them?" he asked.

"Of course not."

I held one up.

"But this one could actually come in handy."

Adam looked at the box.

Then at me.

I considered pointing out that he had an entire box of cables that nobody knew the purpose of anymore.

But it seemed unnecessary to drag him into this.

Because that's the problem with throwing away a really good box.

You never know.

One day, you might have something that needs to be shipped, stored, or packed away. And by then, of course, it'll be too late.

You'll already have thrown the box away.

And you'll have to get another one.

Which would be absolutely ridiculous.

There is, however, one small flaw in this reasoning.

A detail I prefer not to dwell on.

Because the day you actually need to ship something?

None of the boxes fit.

Not a single one.

One is too big. Another is too small. A third has some bizarre molded plastic insert that can't be removed without destroying the entire thing.

You can spend twenty years saving boxes and still end up standing there, holding whatever you need to ship, realizing you're going to have to buy a box.

It's happened to us.

More than once.

Adam is usually fairly restrained with his comments in situations like these.

Especially when I'm sitting on the floor, surrounded by open boxes, trying to convince myself that whatever I'm shipping will probably fit if I turn it diagonally.

Eventually, we actually managed to go through the entire attic.

We threw away a few damaged boxes, two that someone had clearly stacked something far too heavy on top of, and a couple so small that even I couldn't imagine a possible future use for them.

The rest we sorted by size.

It looked very tidy.

Adam stood there for a moment, surveying the results.

Then he looked at the pile of things we were taking to the recycling center.

It wasn't particularly big.

He didn't say anything.

I know exactly what that man looks like when he's thinking something, but he has enough sense of self-preservation to keep it to himself.

We had actually managed to clear an entire shelf.

I filled it with the boxes that had previously been sitting on the floor.