and moral fervor of idealistic youth coming back to haunt people deep in their middle age. You reach a kind of life tipping point where you start to wonder, “Where am I going, what am I doing, and how did I get to this point anyway?”

Or, it could be much simpler than that. It could be just waking up one day and looking around—not like you usually do when you’re trying to find your favorite sweater or your misplaced reading glasses—and thinking, “I sure have a lot of stuff. Where did it all come from and what is it doing here?”

Either way, that was me, going through what seems like an increasingly regular ponder on all the stuff I own.

There are all those suits I never wear jammed into a closet that I hardly ever open. There are all the shirts, ties, braces, belts, and more ties and more ties that go along with them.

There are bin upon bin of socks, many of which I wear when the weather warrants, but many of which haven’t seen my foot in many seasons.

There are dress shoes sitting high