I was tired of lying to myself about my organizational skills, so I decided it was time to pare down the storage unit, starting with my trunk. If I could get through that gargantuan task, other items in storage would seem more tossable. I gave myself a day to clear out the trunk, and just for kicks I applied one of Marie Kondo’s key teachings to the project — if it doesn’t spark joy, get rid of it.I open the trunk and pull out a square, blue vinyl case. On the front is an illustration of a ballerina and the words “My Ballet Box.” It’s bulging with every pair of ballet slippers I have ever owned. The ones from third grade are completely trashed. They are blown out at the top, and I’ve pinned the elastic to the shoe to hold them together. I was wearing these shoes when I heard a mean little girl say I was too fat to be a ballerina, sowing my first seeds of doubt. It makes me angry with myself that some nameless person had such a large influence on me. Unfortunately, she was right — I didn’t have the body for ballet and gave it up in junior high for jazz and dance team instead. My silly third-grade self still yearns to give it a shot, while my “today” self knows it’s never happening. But it does make me feel better that I can still reenact every eight-count of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” when we go old-school in my hip-hop class.Next up is my “bag of funny” — costumes and wigs from my four-year stint with a comedy group I belonged to after grad school. We thought we would all become famous actors. A few did. I wasn’t one of them. In this bag I find Gerald, the extremely lifelike monkey puppet, who killed it onstage once but was never seen again because the director axed the sketch. I haven’t performed in years, but I’ve kept Gerald locked in the storage facility, as who knows when you’ll need a realistic monkey puppet for your comedy comeback. I hug him and sneeze; his fur is dusty. Poor Gerald. He was meant for something better.Putting my hand down into the trunk, I stab myself in the palm with the pointy top of my piano award. It’s gold-tone plastic and shaped like a treble clef. I’m filled with pride as I pick it up by its hefty marble base. When I was in junior high, I took first place in the regional Beethoven competition. But this trophy doesn’t say first place. The brass plate on it reads “Participant.” Hmmm. Could it be that I didn’t win first place? I can’t believe that I have been keeping a physical reminder of a memory that might not even be real.