Therapeutic deletions

After nearly 4 years of steady, mostly trouble-free service, Rob and I nonetheless recently decided it was time to upgrade our cell phones. When I mentioned our plans to a fellow Gen Xer, she gave the most appropriate response possible: “I’m sorry.”

What a hassle! I am not a technophobe, but I also don’t particularly enjoy trying to hunt down that one deeply buried setting that must be toggled in just the right direction to suddenly get my handheld answer box to behave the way I want it to. I am the Geek Squad of Woodhaven and it’s a job I dread and try to avoid. Hence the 4-year-old phones that still have touch id and headphone jacks.

Among the tasks I assigned myself to get ready for The Upgrade was to winnow down my phone’s photo album. While I thought my nearly 3,000 photos were a lot, an unscientific poll of my Facebook friends suggests I’ve done a very impressive job keeping my cellular album manageable over the years (the average number of photos among my friends who replied was 13,394).

So over the course of about a week, I sifted through my many photos of vacations and fairs and sunsets and a particularly photogenic black cat. Downloading the images to organized files on my laptop, I am pleased to announce I got it down to just 702 photos that I want to keep at my fingertips.

Among the photos I pulled off and put in a new album were various scenes of Pandemic Life. I had photos of grocery stores with arrows on the floor, parking lots with hastily spray-painted numbers, lines of people 6 feet apart waiting outside a restaurant that deftly pivoted to “To Go” orders, church services with pews removed in place of “family groups” of chairs, screenshots of Zoom chats and meetings, Band-Aids over vaccinated arms, a positive Covid test, and so many selfies that featured face masks.

It was an unexpected relief to delete those Covid-era photos from my phone. I am no longer reminded of those surreal, fear-laden moments as I scroll through my collection looking for a specific non-pandemic photo. I didn’t realize the baggage-y impact seeing those images on a pretty regular basis was having on me until they were gone. While I don’t necessarily want to erase the past, I don’t need to frequently revisit it either. Especially that past.

The photo release inspired me to make another Covid clean sweep. Although I don’t remember the date, I do clearly remember putting up two rows of hooks in our laundry room so I could better organize our growing collection of Pandemic Masks. One row was for Rob, the other for me. For a seeming eternity, we were using those hooks daily. Thankfully, though, for the past couple of years, the hanging masks have evolved into odd décor as we have replaced any masking needs with higher-quality disposable ones.

Top row is Rob's. I clearly
decided to view masks as accessories.

When I installed the hooks, I recall wondering how long we would be living in masked times. It was with great hope and optimism that I attached the units to the wall with temporary tape and Velcro, desperate for the day we didn’t need them anymore.

I was filled with relief, gratitude, and a confused sense of “Did that time really happen??” as I removed the masks and hooks a few days ago. I looked at the masks that I made, remembering how frustrating and incredibly bloggable that little DIY adventure was. I looked at the masks that I bought as utterly bizarre souvenirs when we finally dared to venture out into the world again. I looked at the masks that I bought at a great price when the manufacturer had more confidence than I did that the height of the insane times was behind us. It was a very strange trip down a very strange lane of memories.

No pictured: an array of odd supplements like
metal bendy nose pieces, foam nose bridges,
and pipe cleaners. Masks + glasses = so much
annoying fog.

Deciding that the mask collection is a fascinating snapshot of all that was unprecedented (remember that overused word?!), I resisted throwing the masks away. Instead, I pondered a place I could store them that I wouldn’t visit often, a place that wouldn’t catch my eye as I wander about Woodhaven, a place I could forget even existed.

With a surge of inspiration, I trotted upstairs to a largely unused bathroom, heading for the storage cabinet under the sink. I opened the wooden door, ready to toss in my plastic bags of masks, and laughed out loud at how me I am.

Greeting me in the cabinet was my hair coloring kit circa 2016 – the last time I dyed my hair that dark brown Truffle #50 color.  

I wondered where that bell pepper
timer went! And the blue tape? I put
it on my face around my hairline to
minimize the post-coloring scrubbing
I had to do.

Yep, I indeed found the perfect spot. Out of the way and forgotten, where artifacts of Times That Were can collect and be visited…or not. I think I’ll move our tower of at-home Covid tests in there next.

That blank wall just breathes peace now.