What's It Worth?

This evening, I worked with a customer named Bill. Despite the fact that he is a proud lifetime member of the NRA and an avid Nascar fan, Bill and I get along just great. I've been working with him for the last few weeks until I can train his new staff person. I help him with his finances, his grocery shopping, and his medical appointments, and I have been helping him get his house straightened up and organized.

Helping Bill get organized is a particular challenge because he suffers from a disease known as "I love collectibles" and/or "this could be worth some money someday." I am quite familiar with the symptoms of this disease because both my mother and stepfather have suffered from it for years. The evidence is everywhere, from my mother's collection of Danielle Steele novels and Thomas Kinkade items to my stepfather's insistence on hanging on to unrecognizable, unusable tools and objects that might be worth something and/or might be useful one day.

When you grow up in a household that suffers from this disease, you are inevitably going to be exposed. In middle school and high school, I began and maintained collections of Precious Moments figures, Disney movies, and collectible movie cards. Every vacation ended with a souvenir or trinket that I could bring back home. I went through a phase where I was collecting all things elephant (shirts, jewelry, figurines, you name it), and another where I was collecting "lifelike" dolls and displaying them on doll stands in my room. When I received gifts designated as collectibles (and even some gifts that weren't designated as anything), I kept the tags on and safely stored away all the original packaging, because, you never know, it could be worth something someday.

Years later, something definitely changed. Perhaps it was the experience of going off to college without all of my stuff, and realizing I could live without it. Perhaps it was moving again and again and learning to leave more and more things behind. Perhaps it was just a reality check. Whatever it was, my sentiments shifted, and I slowly began to ask myself questions. Why the hell didn't I ever play with this doll instead of keeping it in mint condition with its tags on? What in the world made me think that this stupid collectible might be worth money someday? Why am I hanging on to this figurine if I don't even like it? How in the hell did I end up with all of this crap? Before I knew it, collectibles were no longer the objects of my desire. Instead, collectibles made me annoyed and angry.

As I slowly moved out of my parents' house bit by bit, endless discussions with my mother ensued. As I moved item after item into the "give away" pile, she would blatantly (and sometimes even secretly) take it out and find a way to keep it. You never know, honey, it might be worth something someday. You can't get rid of this; this is a collectible. I realized how silly it was. Most of the stuff was crap. And even on the off chance that it might be worth something, I was willing to take the gamble. I just didn't want all of that junk anymore, and I let it all go.

Earlier tonight, Bill picked up item after item, contemplating its worth. I couldn't help but cringe as he chose to keep collectible after collectible, poster after poster, trinket after trinket. Occasionally, he would show me something and say, "I don't know. . . this might be worth something someday. Should I keep it or toss it?"

"Bill," I said, "my answer will always be toss it."