You know how almost everyone you know owns a TV? How that TV is usually at least 32 inches or maybe upwards of a 47 inch? How you squint when you encounter a screen smaller than that on the rare occasions you find yourself in your grandmom’s guest bedroom? How you feel like you might as well take out your laptop if you’re going to bother with a screen that size?
When my husband and I moved from our small apartment to our spacious (we’re talking row home spacious) house, we never bothered to upgrade from the 19 incher that had previously fit so seamlessly into our tiny apartment living room. Sure, no one has been banging down our door to watch football games or Olympic tournaments. And maybe we’ve been sliding the furniture a few feet closer to the TV when there’s something on we want to watch, but we’ve made do. There are other things to spend money on – organic food, Spanish shoes, Spanish hotels. You get the point.
So the chumps who broke into our house while we were away in Guatemala recently must have been REALLY disappointed to discover they picked the only house on the block with a TV smaller than many computer monitors. Bummer, dude.
Of course, that’s not the only thing that was taken. To date the tally includes the TV, a computer (with all pictures, financial records and 20 years of my husband’s professional career and personal writing pursuits – not backed up), a marathon medal, the change jar, a duffel bag and laundry hamper with at least one pair of shorts.
Naturally, the computer was a painful loss, especially for Scott. I was more irritated about the damn change jar, which actually included quarters since we’re no longer hitting up the laundromat and don’t cling to them like gold.
But just a few hours after we’d discovered the theft, Scott had this to say: “You know, I’m going to need to re-create quite a few documents for my new business, which really sucks. But to be honest, there’s something freeing about letting go of all that creative and professional history. Like I can start anew, from right here, where I am today.” Or something like that.
Our history generally provides a tremendously useful foundation for continuing to launch ourselves forward through life. There’s a sense of building and of growth. Sometimes, however, we don’t get the choice to keep building on to what we’ve already created – be it a career or a relationship or a piece of art. Sometimes, our tangible history gets taken away from us and we have to start anew, from right here, from where we are today.
Given the choice, I bet Scott would choose to have that history back. I certainly would. That’s not to say it’d be what’s best, though.
