An ancient proverb once declared that you never know how much stuff you really have until you need to pack up and move. After picking apart every nook in my childhood bedroom for three straight weeks, I can attest; in a metaphorical game of Ouija, ghosts of my past came forward and it was no pretty sight. With hoarded collections of every sort (rocks, scented hand sanitizers, memorabilia from the 2011 Royal Wedding), I couldn’t help but to painstakingly inspect each item, tracing its origin and relevancy during my previous life. I must admit that my materialistic tendencies got the best of me at times, and some undesirables were kept for no real reason at all. I sure won’t be able to take every vacation trinket or photo booth strip to college, so I had come up with a new plan. Lo and behold, my Wilton time capsule was born.
We’ll start off with the heaviest artifacts on the bottom. My Walter Schalk jazz shoes have been so haphazardly shoved onto my feet for each Monday night class that their laces are now gnarled and permanently knotted. Mom used to delight in my jazz recitals, where she’d lovingly coat my pursed lips in bright red and peruse floral shops for bouquets of pink roses and baby’s breath. I can’t muster up any sort of impressive jive nowadays, but I do know how to make a fool of myself in front of a large crowd! Throw in my eighth grade yearbook for good measure, lest we forget the time when pretentious 14-year-old Eve decided to quote Freud. Not sure my field hockey stick or volleyball can make the cut; after all, I sure didn’t during tryouts!