I am a total pack rat. My apartment is decorated with the hundreds of books, CDs and magazines I’ve amassed over the years. I refuse to part with my collection of VHS tapes, despite the fact that I no longer have a VCR. There’s a box under my bed filled with drafts of forgotten scripts, old rolodexes, outdated headshot postcards, and instruction manuals for printers, cell phones, Palm Pilots and laptops I’ve long since upgraded. I keep Altoids tins around on the theory they’ll come in handy, the shelves of my medicine cabinet sag under the weight of all the tried-but-didn’t-like moisturizers I figure I’ll pass along to friends, and I have never, ever, thrown away a shopping bag I thought I could re-use. In my own defense, I do re-use them, the Altoids tins have come in handy, and I am pretty generous about letting my friends shop my beauty closet. But every so often, like, when I’m turning over my apartment for a copy of the credit card bill with the never-resolved, still-disputed charge, I wish I were a minimalist. I wish I were one of those people who could pack my life up into a rucksack, hop on my vintage Ducati, and set out for parts unknown. I dated a guy like that. It didn’t work out.