When I left home to start a two-decade foray in Asia, all I owned fit in one suitcase. Not any suitcase, the nearly extinct fabric-covered cardboard type with rusty metal snaps that only twine and a prayer held together. Now when I look in any of my closets or cupboards they are filled with a lifetime of stuff, much of it the kind you see being sold for $10 or less at garage sales.

People love stuff. We love our things. No matter how big or small, pretty or functional, expensive or cheap; we need to have the bits and pieces that make us who we are.

Stuff falls into different categories. There's useful stuff, like phones, sofas, televisions, computers and that omelet pan you stole from your mother's kitchen after getting your first apartment. Then there's sentimental stuff, like frayed school jerseys, a plastic tiara you wore to a bachelorette party, matchbooks that come with some great memories and some of you'd rather forget.

And then there's the "what was I thinking of?" stuff, such as the treadmill that gets more use as a clothes rack, the pig-shaped fridge magnet that oinks every time you open the door, the overpriced oil painting done by a gypsy elephant and the fuchsia pink tube top tricked out with "Disco Baby" sequins.

There comes in everyone's life, however, a time to downsize, a time to throw away that MS-DOS for Dummies, those skinny jeans that are but a wistful thought, that duplicate copy of a 1998 tax return and the hidden love letters from a former flame. (Well, let's not get carried away here. When was the last time you were referred to as "earthly splendor"?).

The irony of it all is that getting rid of stuff is so much harder than acquiring it. As we move that chipped Jack's Smokehouse mug to the bin, it cries out to us: "Wait! Remember all those mornings when it was just you and me, a good cup of coffee and the sports pages?" Or the lumpy easy chair that endured hours of football, jumping kids, liquids of differing viscosities, and was a faithful retreat for an anxious parent waiting up for a wayward teen.

Once determined, there are three ways to get rid of stuff: bag it, drag it or tag it. Bag it is the easiest. Taking on the cold personae of the Terminator, ruthlessly bag your second-place company golf trophy, haul it to the curb and be done with it. Or, do-gooder that you are, drag your stuff over to the nearest charity. It's not on the same scale as donating a kidney, but hey, your copy of MS-DOS is just what that kid with the donated Commodore 64 computer was looking for.

Tag it, or the garage sale, is not for the faint-hearted. Putting a price on memories versus perceived value usually devolves into a high wire act of heated emotions, so prepare for the steely eyes and dispassionate appraisals of strangers. The successful seller will rehearse this mantra: "Lo, that I walk through the valley of bargain-seekers, I will fear no hagglers. I will remain firm on the trampoline and the set of golf clubs."

At the end of the day, hopefully you will have recouped a diminutive percentage of your original outlay and restrained yourself from throttling that middle-aged guy who insisted your kid's Pokemon collection was fake but bought it anyway at a third of the price offered.

Now, with the clutter gone, you survey your newfound expanse of space, taking a moment to give a proper burial for Fred IV, your pet hamster who you unearthed within the pile of old boots, ice skates and outgrown shoes.

So enjoy the lightness of step, the freedom of total liberty, unbounded by the things that shackle and define you.

That is, of course, until you eye that new gourmet one-touch espresso machine on sale. After all, one man's treasure is another man's future garage sale bargain.