The Ego, the Id and the Self-Storage: Be a Freud! Be Very a Freud!

One of the biggest U.S. industries continues to grow

By Ed Goldman

The term “self-storage” sounds like a program to help us tuck away our egos, perhaps to concentrate on the greater good of mankind. Think self-denial, selflessness. 

But Zen again, you know that “self-storage” refers to one of the most economically sturdy investments in the country, according to a number of business media outets. Before the COVID era, the self-storage sector was already quite resilient, as we accumulated so much stuff that we had to either buy additional attics, basements and garages—which is to say, second and third homes—or rent a unit somewhere to deal with the flow with which we were unable to go.

COVID ushered in an era that allowed the owners of self-storage facilities a license to issue their own Monopoly money. As we moved our offices into our homes, we moved a lot of the accumulated junk in our homes into storage units. 

Then, as COVID slid into the dubious mists of nostalgia—“Hey, what was all that gol-dang dyin’ and mask-wearin’ about, anyway?!”—and the majority of white-collar workers decided they were neverevernever going back to their soul-suffocating workplaces, the stow-and-go trend escalated.

I’ve always thought of storage units the way F. Scott Fitzgerald thought of Sundays as “a day between two days”—which is to say, as a place between two places, not a permanent fix. 

Whenever I did a residential re-lo, I always put my art and book collections into a unit until the new living quarters were ready for my antiques load show.

The last time I did this was when I downsized from a four-story 4800-square-foot home into a two-story 1500-square-foot condo, where I’ve lived for more than six-and-a-half years. If I were a 1940s movie, I’d be known as The Amazing Doctor Clutterhouse. (For younger readers: There was a 1938 film starring Edward G. Robinson as “The Amazing Dr. Clitterhouse.” There’s no reason for you to have seen it. I’m not even sure I did. But I always remembered the title and thought, Someday, if I have a thrice-weekly online column, I ought to write one about storage units and do a play on that name.) 

So I rented a unit at a place here called Life Storage which lived up to its name when a few surprise-bachelors, recently tossed from their homes, decided to store not only their bric-a-brac but also themselves in one of the air-conditioned, 24/7-security rentals. These guys would sleep in the very furniture they were storing, and early in the morning head to a nearby gas station men’s room to spruce themselves up for the day. 

The security system provided their downfall. 

While some of us were eccentric enough to steal into our units in the wee hours because we wanted to get our mitts on something we’d erroneously stored, we didn’t show up wearing pajamas and bathrobes along with our special pillows, self-improvement tapes and teddy bears (which, if apprehended, we knew to call stuffed service animals). The guys were busted. Not sure what happened to their stored swag.

Selecting a storage unit that’s right for you is a challenge (as was writing that unctuous, upsell phrase). 

If you have precious things that require climate control—like artwork, wines and the pelts of helpless animals that were slaughtered so you could mince into winter soirees engulfed in their pathetic little hides—it can cost you an arm and a leg as well as a co-signer’s arm and a leg.