The Importance of a Pinky

The whole thing started with the junk room.

I don’t know why we keep the crap we do. When I first moved into my house five years ago, I promised myself that the extra bedroom would be a home office – and ONLY a home office. I apparently was lying to myself. I tend to do that quite often.

Soon this proclaimed “home office” gradually transformed into a junk room. A catch-all room. A room filled with my life’s litter. Presents that I didn’t like. Left over paint cans. Empty boxes. Old magazines. Furniture that I don’t use. Childhood memorabilia that my mother insisted that I remove from her house. All collected, hidden from sight and never thought of again. If that single room had ever imploded, I would not have cared. I could continue living my life and never lose sleep over what was missing.

There’s no way I could have ever written down a complete inventory. I remember the most recent deposits, but the first level of debris is as forgotten as the cancelled reality show Who’s Your Daddy. And, yes, I had to google that because I… well… forgot about it. As I dug through the layers of junk, I was surprised at what I found.

It was a messy mixture of crap.

The very large black trash bag quickly multiplied to four. At first, the decision to discard or to keep was difficult. I would stand there holding an item and staring at it. Each time thinking “How can I use this?” or “Who can I give this to?” I’ve always found joy in giving my junk to someone else. I envision them in several years going through their own junk room either cursing my name or struggling to remember where they got it.

I second guessed throwing away my old 1980’s cassettes. Rick Springfield and Duran Duran will always have a place in my heart, but I realize that there is no need in holding on to their scratched cassettes. I’ve found a nice home for the leather chair and unused computer monitor. All the baskets have been freely passed out – and since I’m not a basket-type-of-person, I found it odd that I even had them to begin with.

I quickly filled up my outside trash can, so I utilized my resources by placing items (aka junk) on the front lawn with a big “FREE” sign. I watched through my window as customers would enter my curbside store and brows through my offerings. I got irritated when they left empty handed. “Come on! It’s free!” I thought to myself. I got tickled when a little boy on his bicycle had a hard time balancing his newly owned candle holders, large framed Norman Rockwell print, and a box of various dusty treasures. I can only imagine the look on his mother’s face.

Everything else was thrown into a dumpster.

The dumpster was already full, so for a couple of days I drove with two very large speakers (circa 1988) in the backseat of my car. A part of me wishes I had hooked them up to my stereo system. Turn the bass up really loud. Throw some fuzzy dice on the rearview window. Slouch all the way down and lean way over to the right as I cruised the streets of Little Rock.

The day I trashed my massive speakers, I interestingly lost one of my rings. A ring that I wear everyday. A tiny silver pinky ring with a sapphire surrounded by tiny diamonds. My grandmother bought me this ring about twenty years ago. I searched through the house but never could find it. I always take my rings off together, so I couldn’t imagine how it got separated.

What surprises me is that I never freaked out.

I didn’t stress. I didn’t feel the world coming to an end. I lost one of my sentimental rings… and I was okay. After going through my day’s itinerary, I decided that it must have fallen off while I was man-handling the two speakers and tossing them into the dumpster. I visualized my ring slipping off my pinky, falling through all the random trash bags and landing in a puddle of nasty slush on the bottom of the big metal box.

I never realized how many times I use my thumb to adjust the position of the pinky ring. My pinky felt naked. I entertained the idea of buying a new ring, but was in no hurry. I decided that there were worse things in life than living without a ring on that finger. I was okay… and it shocked me.

After three or four days the thoughts of the lost ring slowly faded. I decided that it was time to do laundry and so I separated all my darks, whites, and not-sures and headed to the laundry room. I opened my washing machine door and just before throwing in a load… I saw it. There it was at the bottom. Instead of falling into the dumpster, it had fallen into the washing machine. Having been through a wash, it was sparkling as if it was new. I picked it up, proudly put it back on my finger and thought “this is a good day.”

The whole junk-room-ring experience made me realize that life goes on even if you trash your childhood memories or lose a diamond ring.

I honestly believe that if I hadn’t gone through the mental process of cleaning out my junk room that losing the ring would have been a bigger issue. I had already let go of so much and therefore when it came down to the ring – I was okay.

I’m glad I found my ring. I’m glad that my junk room will soon be an actual office. Personal growth can at times be stressful. I’m relieved to have learned that paying attention to small issues has just as much growth impact as the large ones.