Each morning, I grab my money, wallet and other essentials, leaving the detritus behind. Undisturbed and unnoticed, these remains of the day slowly ferment to produce a remarkably well-preserved narrative of my life.
On the whole, I'm a bit of a neatnik, except for that dresser top. Oddly, it can avoid the touch of a Swiffer for years at a time, until, suddenly - after two years, or five, or a decade - a tipping-point is reached. The clutter must go. The most recent occurred during a spring-cleaning offensive a while back.
The excavation unearthed several artifacts of interest: a cache of collar stays of assorted sizes, a backscratcher of uncertain origin, receipts for two 2005 Christmas Eve purchases at Victoria's Secret (don't ask), a stub from a $200 check from the Washington Post for a fall 1996 article I wrote, the names of the group of 25 friends and acquaintances who attended a 2002 Phillies game.
But it was the cache of ticket stubs to long-ago sporting and theater events that caught my eye.
Sorting through the pile reminded me of how quickly time passes. Can it be six years since my snake-bitten attempt to rendezvous with a friend at that June 17, 2004, Thursday afternoon game between the Phillies and Detroit Tigers? It seems like only yesterday that a protracted court hearing, hellish traffic, nonexistent parking and the unfamiliar maze of Citizens Bank Park all conspired to frustrate my arrival at my seat until the eighth inning of a Phillies win.
And how can it be that it's approaching 11 years since my one and only Bruce Springsteen concert (mezzanine level, $67.50, terrible acoustics) on Saturday, Sept. 25, 1999, at the First Union Center (rechristened the Wachovia Center in 2003, and Wells Fargo Center as of July 1)? I shuddered at these reminders of the fleeting years.
