Letting go

Just for the record, I get attached to things. Now although I’m not one of those scary people whose house is so full of coasters, empty soda bottles and used USPS boxes, that they make it on Oprah, it can get a tad annoying for both myself and the people around me. This is mainly because the things I get attached to are, at times, a little out of the ordinary. Odd things that you wouldn’t expect, like handkerchiefs, old school planners, little notes people wrote me in bygone days, an ancient field hockey skirt, and all of my racing bibs.

Apparently, bank accounts now belong to this group of oddities too. See, I have two Dutch bank accounts. When I was a little five-year old, my parents opened up a savings account for me at one bank, and then when I went to college, the free gift and checking offer induced me to open a second account at another bank. So pretty much for as long as I have had a semi-steady income, I have had these same two bank accounts. Now that I don’t live in the Netherlands anymore, however, the need for two accounts has pretty much disappeared. Calculate in the fact that both still charge me a quarterly fee, and you see why I really should close at least one bank account. So last night, as I was trying to fix an address change gone awry with one of the two banks, I realized it was time to let go of the least active bank account. I made up my mind, and went to bed happy. But this morning, all sorts of thoughts have begun to run through my head, and I started to doubt last night’s decision all over again. I mean, the account I hardly ever use is the one my parents opened for me when I was five. I’ve had that account for decades; do I really need to close it now? Plus the people at that bank are really much nicer than the people at the other bank. Maybe I should just transfer some money from the other account and start using this one more often. But somewhere in the back of my head, a little voice is saying; It’s a bank account for crying out loud! It’s not your first shoes, your first doll, or even your swimming diploma, it’s a series of numbers! And so the battle continues inside my head.

Trust me, this is nothing new for me. When I had to give up my Dutch driver’s license to obtain a Georgia one, I cried. And not just in the car, I cried inside the DMV. I cringe when I think about it; I mean, I sniffled over a pink piece of paper that never fit in my wallet, and was torn and scruffy from years of use. But you see, as I explained to my husband, it was the driver’s license I had worked my but off for. It was the driver’s license that I actually had to earn. I mean, no offense to American drivers here, but when you can obtain your license at 16, after having driven around with your dad, and taking a 15-mins spin around a parking lot, you haven’t truly earned it. And, most importantly, that ugly oblong piece of paper felt like one of my last ties to Holland.

And I feel the same way about that second bank account, the old bookcase that we really should get rid of, some of my clothes, and the content of at least three boxes up in the attic. They all come from Holland, or even France or Germany. All places I’ve called home, and that I will probably never again see like that again. Now when I said I’m not a packrat, I did mean that. I can and do limit myself to the kind of stuff I can hold on to. Once a year I will force myself to go through all of my things and do some seriously cleaning up. Sometimes I wonder though if all that does is make me more attached to the odds and ends I do decide to hang on to.

And, honestly people, how much room does a bank account take up? Could I please just not keep it and then maybe reconsider next year? Please…?