Trip Down Memory Lane Littered With Exes

(From The Orlando Sentinel -- By Marisol Novak)

One of the many, many, many millions of reasons I hate to move is the trek down memory lane that packing for the move provides.

You know what I'm talking about -- where you run across that ticket stub from your second date with the love of your life before he transformed into the demon of the day. Or you find the card he sent you when he was still crazy about you, before he started to take you for granted.

Or my favorite, when you go to clean out the refrigerator, and you find the empty bottle of pinot noir you downed the night he broke your heart, and you never quite got around to throwing away the bottle (mainly because you passed out before you got the chance). Luckily for me, most of my exes were never thoughtful enough to send cards or wealthy enough for luxuries such as movies. And, well, I can't really identify which empty bottle of wine in my fridge goes with which tragic love affair.

Doesn't mean I don't have my own trek down memory lane, though. I do. Mine just involves my closet.

See, I have a lot of clothes. A lot. Bunches. A myriad of mini skirts, a plethora of pants and dozens of dresses. And sadly enough, I wear pretty much the same stuff every day because most of my clothing dredges up some kind of specific memory with a boy. Usually a memory of happier times before it all went sour.

A memory I try to keep hidden because it'll soften my resolve to get over all my boy toys of the past. Plus, let's face it, happy memories help mask the hate.

There's the gauzy black dress that I first kissed LAX in, hiding in the depths of my closet. My yellow silk blouse that BOY WONDER fumbled with the buttons on our first real date is shoved in the back of a drawer. MR. RIGHT NOW's favorite denim mini skirt I found under my bed.

And the pants PETER PAN ripped in his anxious attempt to "unwrap" a package too quickly reside crumpled in a corner.

What do I do with all of this stuff?

I spent a fortune in time, energy and cash gathering these essentials of my wardrobe, but I absolutely refuse to wear them ever again because of the memories they evoke. So I'm left carrying clothes from apartment to apartment like MARLEY'S CHAINS, constantly forcing me to invoke the ghosts of ex-boyfriends of my past.

I don't want that kind of energy in my new apartment. I'm trying to start over. Out with the old and all that other clichéd crap.

So I decided to consign my old clothes. You know, go to used clothing shops and have them try to pawn your karmically challenged clothing onto other unsuspecting chicks, and in six weeks you pick up a check.

Which, if you really think about it, that's all we are doing in the dating world -- we're DATING ON CONSIGNMENT. You know, we go to bars and try on used-up boys who try to pawn their karmically challenged personalities onto us unsuspecting chicks, and in six weeks we pick up the pieces of our heart.

I think I like the deal I get with my old clothes better.

Besides, I don't feel quite so bad pawning off that little black gauzy number to some random girl in desperate need of a cheap cocktail dress as I do pawning off BOY WONDER to an actual acquaintance.

Somehow, I think the dress will be put to better use. Plus, it's her fault if it's a bad fit -- with BOY WONDER, I could have warned the girl before she ever tried him on that he wasn't going to do anything for her figure, complexion or her self-esteem.