On New Year’s Day, I felt the urge to de-clutter. The spark hit me as I opened up the door to the medicine cabinet. Expiration dates are a great thing. They give you an excuse to throw something out, even if the voice of your penny-pinching, frugal Aunt Bertha screams, “Don’t throw that out! You might need it someday!” Would I really want to rely on medications that are expired, when I’m in the throes of a nasty cold, a painful sunburn, or constipation?

So here’s what got tossed this last week:

Dermoplast. Pain relieving spray. The institutional package, hospital strength. Circa 1993, last used when I returned from the hospital after having my first son. The pinpoint opening from this aerosol can is yellow and crusted over. Packaging declares, “Fast relief of PAIN and ITCH from sunburn, insect bites, minor burns and scrapes.” It may be used for these ailments, but I would always associate this product with having to sit on an air-filled donut after coming home from the hospital. Expiration: July 1999.

ex-lax. Laxative pills. Regular strength. Unopened. This is one that Aunt Bertha would clearly object to throwing out. Given to me by a friend as a practical joke at my 40th birthday party. Packaging reads, “for gentle, dependable overnight relief.” My family already thinks I spend too much time in the bathroom. I don’t think they’d appreciate me in there overnight. Expiration: October 2000.

Benadryl. Antihistamine. Children’s version. Allergy chewables, grape flavored. Two packages, both opened and three-quarters full. My kids hate grape flavored stuff. I can’t believe I got one of them to ingest this. “For relief of sneezing, itchy watery eyes, runny nose, and itchy throat.” These symptoms could be found in any single day in our household, but not because of allergies. I’m particularly intrigued by the fact that the front of one package shows a mother figure nurturing a boy figure. The other package has a boy, upside down, swinging from a tree. Now which is it? Expiration: July 2003 and February 2004.

Cortaid. Anti-itch cream. Itching seems to be a trend here. Maximum strength. Who would want anything less? The tube is well used. It looks as if the semi-arid Denver weather and the last user’s application have left the container bone dry. Pressing on the tube only yields the sound of plastic surrounded by air. No expiration.

Travel sickness medication. 100 chewable tablets. Last taken a couple of years ago when I was experiencing vertigo upon waking up in the morning. “Uses: Prevents and treats nausea, vomiting, dizziness due to motion sickness.” Traveling in your dreams
does not count. Expiration: March 2005.

Dramamine. Chewable formula. “The Most Recommended Motion Sicknesss Medicine Ever.” Unopened. Bought on behalf of one of my sons, probably coming home from a birthday party with too much candy and ice cream in the stomach. Expiration: October 2003.

Alka-Seltzer Plus Cold Medicine. Unopened. Two packages, sample size, two tablets. Must have come in the plastic wrappers from the Sunday paper. One is Orange Zest flavored. The other is Cherry Burst flavored. The flavors remind me of chewing gum, or maybe an icy snow-cone on a hot August day. I rarely take medicines for colds because it doesn’t seem to do any good. Expiration: March 2004.

Children’s Tylenol Cold. Suspension Liquid. (Not to be confused with suspension bridges, suspenseful stories, or sinister suspects.) “Cold Plus Cough.” Packaging shows a figure of a round face boy, coughing into an open hand. I don’t know who the model was for the artist, but it certainly wasn’t one of my kids. There’s no polite “I’ll keep my germs to myself” motion in the Ross household. Expiration: January 2003.

As I type these expiration dates, I have to keep reminding myself that this is the year 2006. Have I really lived through so many expiration dates and not realized it?

Going through my medicine cabinet has been an exercise in excavating my family’s past ills, real and imagined. It makes me realize that I can do with a lot less safety nets for the middle of the night pains. (The local grocery store is just a mile down the street, with fresh, unexpired medications.)

Here’s what I’m wondering about now. What else in my life has reached its expiration date, without me noticing? And if I took a few minutes to notice, what would I realize I could do without, even in the face of Aunt Bertha’s insistent voice?