by Annie Warner
I don’t have an addiction; I wouldn’t even call it a problem. I can stop anytime I want; I did stop. I’m a collecter, really. A recovered collector. Honestly, who could resist the sight of a newly restocked Staples? The swish of automatic doors, the deep exhale of sterile air conditioning, the crisply organized shelves of pencils and rulers and binders and paper clips and highlighters and notebooks and…sorry, I got a little carried away. I’m certainly not an addict; I’m a school supplies connoisseur. Some might call them “office supplies,” but I prefer the more nostalgic term; and I think many others in the school supplies appreciation community would agree.
I started collecting at a young age. My kindergarten teachers sent out a list of mandatory and optional back-to-school supplies and as the oldest child in my family, my parents hadn’t yet realized that I would never once actually use these items. Naturally, I bought everything, mandatory and optional, on the list. God, what a rush. I started off with the very basics – those beginner items owned by every burgeoning collector and many an amateur enthusiast: a The Dog folder, safety scissors, backpack, lunchbox, Tacoma #2 pencils, scented Magic Markers and the essential 270 pack of crayons. Then I moved on to more luxurious artisan pieces: Lisa Frank gel pens, multicolored eraser caps, a padlocked diary, stickers and a feather-topped glitter pencil. Yes, my youthful tastes bordered on tacky…but no matter – I was hooked. The thrill of the hunt, racing through the local Office Max on a weekend evening, gave me an unparalleled adrenaline high. Did I say high? I meant rush. Adrenaline rush.
From there I moved on to more elegant tastes and sophisticated finds. Clear plastic protractors, kept in mint condition because it turned out the math teacher provided them anyway. Three sizes of index cards, “Didn’t we buy these last year? Did you ever use them?” Thin-tipped sharpies – ah, the simple joy of a clean line of permanent ink drawn on a shared desk in a middle school science classroom. High school came with the added joys of graphing calculators (minimally decorated with my name and a friend’s stylized graphite rendering of male genitalia), three-hole plastic project folders and a timeless black Jansport pack. Admittedly, perhaps my collection had reached slightly overgrown dimensions. But it wasn’t hoarding. I had always made a habit of giving thoughtful gifts from my personal collection: a full set of take-apart erasers went to a deskmate in 3rd grade, a Lisa Frank notepad to win over the new kid in middle school, a sheaf of pristine binder paper to a desperate high school acquaintance. I wasn’t hampered by my precious, precious school supplies; I was thriving. It seemed I could survive forever without needing anything but a fresh set of Pilot rollerball pens and a recycled notebook every year or so.
Then came the cruel shock of intervention. “This box in your closet is full of office supplies? Perfect! Your brother has all this stuff on the list for middle school math.” A punch to the gut. “Don’t you have notebooks left over from last semester? Just use those.” The harsh sting of familial rejection. “I’m not buying you more pens. You’re in college.” Cut off. Cast aside. Abandoned. Jittery, strung out on my last remaining ballpoints, notebooks and post-its, I was forced to make a major change. I maintained only a pair of notepads, some vintage folders (from my bygone college touring days), some smooth ballpoints and a few Tacomas. Two years later, I think I’m finally clean. And by clean, I mean physically clean. Organized. My room is literally the size of my bed and my desk so I can only pretty much fit myself and three other things of any kind in there at any time. Sometimes I still crave a quick hit of index cards in a plastic shopping bag, but now I settle for a cheaper fix. Bath salts.
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