According to Merriam-Webster online:

• Main Entry: ex·pi·ra·tion
• Pronunciation: \ˌek-spə-ˈrā-shən\
• Function: noun
• Date: 1526

1 a : the last emission of breath : death b (1) : the act or process of releasing air from the lungs through the nose or mouth : exhalation (2) : the escape of carbon dioxide from the body protoplasm (as through the blood and lungs or by diffusion)

2 : the fact of coming to an end or the point at which something ends : termination

Don't worry, I'm not launching into a musing on death (at least not in the no mas pulse sense). I started thinking about expiration dates as I was going through old crap to see if I wanted to bring it with me when I move. Apparently, I missed the window on the 200 One-A-Day Vitamins for Women I purchased a few years ago. They expired on March 20, 2007. Of the 200, I'd say I took about five. You gotta wonder about the woman I might be today if I had gotten to six before '08. My NyQuil and DayQuil are donezo, too. And the breakfast sandwich holy water that is my bottle of medium hottie salsa from the corner store is moldy.

All of these expiration dates in the face of moving, it makes me feel like my move is overdue, that my shit knew it was time to change before I did. But here's the thing:

I don't like expiration dates. It's like knowing when you're going to break up with someone before the relationship begins. It's a deadline you will probably miss. It expired? Fail! Sometimes, there's a cushion of relief; Thank Godddd! I have two weeks to make it happen with these eggs. And Tums? Those chalky babies have some shelf life. So this morning, I was digging on shelf life, although the things that are still full of potential are filling my boxes to lower-back-assaulting capacity.

What's the alternative to expiration? Preservatives? Not the way forward. Then I started thinking about permanence, baggage, letting go--oh fuck, where is my unemployed mind?! I bet Andy Goldsworthy doesn't pack expired vitamins when he moves. I watched a bit from Rivers and Tides, then I threw away these Levi bell-bottoms that I wore every day in high school (the crotch has seemingly evaporated and I've been storing them under my bed with the bunk Day and NyQuil). Writer's Market 2005, the bra with the exposed underwire that stabs me, and the psychedelic Chinese lantern lights also got the boot. Scorched shelf policy. But there's still a bunch of stuff that's not relevant to my day-to-day, even year-to-year, that I'm taking with me, the stuff that makes my stomach cartwheel at the thought of not having, like my diaries from elementary school, ex-boyfriend associated tchotchkes, hand-written letters, and socks with no mates. Indeed, expiration dates are relative.

Tunes to listen to when you're deciding whether you give a shit what the expiration date has to say:

The Watcher - Dr. Dre

Both Sides, Now - Joni Mitchell

You Can't Always Get What You Want - Rolling Stones

Time to Move on - Tom Petty

When I'm Sixty-Four - The Beatles

You're Just What I Needed - The Cars

I Saw the Light - Hank Williams

Yakety Yak - The Coasters