When Roger and I got married, I didn't know that he had been hiding an addiction from me. We hadn't lived together beforehand, so there was no way that I would have known, right? It was easy to hide, especially because he kept this addiction hidden away in the storage closet on his balcony, and I really had no occasion to suspect him of foul play.
He has an addiction to saving boxes. He squirrels them away every chance he gets, mumbling something about the potential for such a strong, sturdy, unmarred box. He doesn't ever use them, mind you, and he doesn't know just what that potential is – but he knows that it must exist. The box must be useful for something. Like taking up space.
Periodically he'll sort the boxes and decide to throw some away, usually at the encouragement of the loving nag he married (hello, self, no one likes a nag). We did this at the beginning of the summer, once we realized we couldn't fit onto our porch any longer, what with all the boxes spilling over onto the chairs. I watched as Roger consolidated the boxes, keeping some and relenting with others. I watched as the trash pile grew larger and larger with each box he threw onto the pile. I watched as his spirit deflated when he headed to the dumpster with them in tow.
Then I watched through the kitchen window, in disbelief, as he took some boxes to the dumpster, threw them in, and took the other boxes to our car and put them in the trunk. He was trying to hide boxes from me to bring back upstairs, and when I called him to the carpet, I think he was a little shocked that that woman he married could see right through him.
For the past several months, Roger and I have lamented that we are outgrowing our little apartment. It felt crowded, like we were practically stepping on top of each other to move around. And we were.
You see, for the past couple of months, we have been collecting boxes. Again, but with reason. We have been preparing to move somewhere, anywhere, we just didn't know where that place might be. The door was wide-open for us to move internationally, or nationally, or even to stay in this city.
Nearly every day one of us would bring home a box or two from work, a beautiful unmarred box, until one day several weeks ago when I visited my employer's mail room. We haven't brought any boxes home since then, because in that mailroom were Boxes Galore. Like, lots of them, all pretty and shiny and sturdy and ripe for the taking. And we did lots of taking, involving dollies and mail room employees helping us carry them. They are the good kind of boxes – and believe me, I'm now well-qualified to be a Judger of Boxes – the kind that reams of paper come in and that have lids and that don't fold down to space-saving containers.
We stuffed them in the trunk and in the back seat and in the passenger seat of our 4Runner, and then Roger drove them home and stacked them up in our hallway and in our living room and in our office, most notably blocking the entrance to both the study and the guest bathroom. Because I've sequestered the guest bathroom for the time-being (it's far easier for two people to get ready in two bathrooms than in one, you know), that presented a problem for me. The boxes reached the ceiling, I kid you not, and there was about a 12-inch gap I had to squeeze past to get into and out of the bathroom every morning.
Over the weekend, while I laid on the couch all sickly and puny-like, Roger set about consolidating boxes, once again, and moved them all into the office, where they're still stacked to the ceiling. He folded all the packing paper and neatly organized it in one of the boxes according to color and texture. And now our hallway is empty. Alarmingly empty.
Every time I've exited the bathroom this week, I've been startled. I almost feel like we've been robbed. I had grown so accustomed to the boxes, like I had my own personal obstacle course to run each morning. It was the only exercise I ever got – the sucking in of the stomach, the flattening of my body against the door frame, the clenching of my cheeks as I shimmied past the tower of boxes, careful not to knock them over (and oh boy, if they fell over? They caught the door on their way down, and with a great swoosh the door would shut, the boxes would pin it closed, and then I would be stuck in the hallway wearing nothing but a towel, literally digging my way to the door) – and absurdly, I kind of miss them now.
If ever a Cardboard Anonymous class starts, I think Roger and I will need to join.
