The passing of an era

It has been well-established that I am a hoarder. Chronic, in fact. And part of the reason I hoard is because I form some sort of emotional attachment to my stuff. I remember that sweater, I wore it on that job interview.... I remember that stress-relieving squishy toy, I got it at that conference when we did that thing and talked to those people.... I remember that can of Pepsi, I stole it from Malcolm Gladwell....

And the longer something has been a part of my life, the more I avoid the farewell. I'm not ashamed to admit this, I cried when we sold off the family's 1980 Volvo station wagon in 1999. In fact my brother and I went to the lot to give it our final goodbyes and took pictures with it. Man that was a great car. In high school she got several nicknames, one of which was Dee. One of my friends came up with that one; Dee, short for "dehydrated urine," because that's what color she was.

Well, Internets, today was a day similar to the one when sold Dee. Today, the Salvation Army came and took away my disco love seat and matching chair.

For those of you that have had the privilege and honor of knowing these fine pieces of quality home furnishing, you know both that this was a long-time coming (roughly 20 years) and also that this was very emotionally laden. The story goes that this matching set was my parents' first as newlyweds. And they have lived out their destinies as living room staples ever since that time. Okay, they did live down in my parents basement for a good 15 years before I hauled them off with me to my first apartment. They also had a brief stint in a friend's basement while I had no place for them in Seattle. But other than that, they've always been around. The proof? A picture of a picture of my parents' friends (who were at the time, younger than I am now) relaxing and having a great ol' disco time.

They've held up extremely well for the amount of mileage they've seen (the furniture, Internets, the furniture). Okay, they each have a broken leg, but if you very carefully replace that leg and balance the rest of the piece ever-so-gently, no sudden movements, then you'd never know just how wobbly they are. And, I think my side passion for decorating has helped me make these quite retro, quite eclectic pieces seem to work wherever I've moved.

Most recently, I had them in my TV room, and then a couple of weeks ago, I realized it was time for them to go. Now I have a grown-up TV room with a new couch, and new look. I was able to bring into this room a flokati rug that I've been keeping down in my basement since I decided it didn't work in my living room. I love that rug and am happy to have it back (truth be told, I have four of them. Unintentional hoarding, I swear). I also have managed to incorporate the gear table (which has as much fame and notoriety in my circles as the disco couch). So I haven't quite managed to let go of everything, yet.

When I left this morning, the disco couch and chair were on my front porch, and when I came home, all that remained was a tiny little receipt for confirmation of pick up. As I stood there, in the dark, I felt a little pang in my heart. I told myself to, "be brave, Sport." That, "We had to send disco couch and chair to a farm, where they could have the space to frolic the way disco furniture was meant to." And also, "That when I say, 'farm,' I likely mean college fraternity house."