Attachment Disorder

It’s probably best to start by saying that I have what psychologists might describe as an attachment disorder. This is not your typical attachment disorder, where, because you never established a personal connection with a caregiver in your infancy, you are unable to form quality relationships with those around you as an adolescent or adult. No, this is a much more profound attachment disorder involving my relationship with inanimate objects.

I keep old toothbrushes around that remind me of better times, when my teeth weren’t quite as yellow and drinking cold soda didn’t make me to wince with pain. I have a t-shirt that I have worn since I was fourteen, whose once thick, black fabric now more closely resembles the see-through nighties on the covers of the Victoria Secret catalogs that my mother would throw away as soon as soon as they arrived at the house, worried about their effect on my impressionable mind.

I have boxes and boxes of childhood blankets, clothes, and toys. I also have pictures of me playing with those objects as a child so that, in the event of amnesia, I will be able to remind myself exactly why the strange, duck themed blanket and Little Slugger baseball hat are tucked away in my attic.

Not all my possessions get the same treatment. You’d think I was crazy if I kept old gum wrappers or holey gym socks from my youth baseball teams, but if you try to throw away that black t-shirt, or the suit which I wore throughout my mission, you better believe that we are going to go fisticuffs. Ironically, my mom did throw away both of those important articles of clothing, and I’m not embarrassed to say that I retrieved both of them and they still proudly hang in my closet and are worn on a regular basis.

That’s what makes this moment so difficult. As I stand above the sink in my hotel room, holding what is left of my electric razor, I feel as if I’ve lost a member of my family, or at least a close family friend, taken from me in its prime. I should have known better than to pack it in my checked baggage, leaving it exposed to rough baggage handlers and drug sniffing dogs, whom I hold personally responsible for this tragedy.

I had considered replacing it with a newer razor prior to this trip; one that actually cut my hair on the first pass and didn’t leave my skin feeling like the hair had been scrubbed off with sandpaper. But how could I replace such an old friend? I’ve had this razor (I don’t even know if “had” is the right word, I mean, can I really use such a possessive word in reference to a friend?) since I was in college. This razor came with me to Honduras, where I served as a full-time missionary for two years, and where I only could use it occasionally, when I felt confident enough that the electrical outlet I plugged into wouldn’t catch fire, or worse, send a power spike through my razor and kill me, or at least rip off part of my face.

Looking below my hotel sink I see the trash can, its plastic liner ready to accept my razor like a body bag at a crime scene. No, I won’t bury it here; I have to take it home, home to a familiar place that it will recognize, home to the drawer in my bathroom, like an old work horse gone out to pasture. There it will sit, next to the old toothbrushes, and watch the younger toiletries come and go. At some point my wife will notice the two electric razors in my drawer and I will have to explain another of my bizarre traits, and hopefully she’ll understand.

At that point I’ll move it to the attic next to the duck blanket and Little Slugger hat.