Getting Ready To Move Again.

Top of the mornin’ to ya!(Or afternoon, to my East Coast friends.) The weekend begins in about eight hours for me and normally I’d be brimming with joy for the gift of two work-free days but this weekend will not be without it’s fair share of work over here in at the Cornman place. Our last day in our apartment is next Wednesday, so tomorrow will begin bright and early with boxing up and clearing out stuff like winter clothes and fancy dishes, and then onto the more practical – hauling away wall decor and books from the bookcase and kitchen appliances. I’ve gotten a little bit of a head start with it, but truth be told, we don’t have a ton of stuff. And it’s very difficult to find the motivational juice to come home from a nine-hour day and delicately dust, wrap up, and pack picture frames and 3,000 pounds worth of books. Ya know?

I hate moving. I really do. The process is not fun for anyone involved. Unless you’re one of those Real Housewives of blah-blah town and can hire movers and coax ex-boyfriends to do all the dirty work for you. If only I had that luxury of bathing in a senseless amount of dough for fun.

One reason I hate to move is because it feels like a temporary suspension of control. You can do everything right and pack up every box without blemish and scrub away the dust on the baseboards with the ease and efficiency of June Cleaver — yet something still always manages to go wrong. A time-sensitive obligation looms over you and threatens to not get met, a shortage of time and boxes and strong biceps, or that beautiful salad bowl your dear Aunt Sally gifted you two Christmases ago getting shattering beneath the weight of the blender your husband decided to pack directly on top of it. There’s never enough caffeine for moments like this. It can make ya want to throw your hands up and vow to just sleep in the car ’til your head feels anchored down and level again. And then there’s that “fish-out-water” feeling that you get when after two days of packing, you realize you mistakenly boxed up your hairdryer and best jeans and toenail clippers, or some other random thing you didn’t think you’d need in the interim time between packing and unpacking, and the moment comes when you need them and the best you can do is curse the naked walls and your own stupidity for not thinking ahead.

I suppose I will just attend church with wet hair this morning, since my hairdryer is buried seventeen feet deep in one of those thirty boxes by the door. And since we also packed up the microwave, it’s Starbucks, Subway, and Chipotle for the next 48 hours. Here we go…

Any of this sound familiar?

The positives of moving? A fresh start in a new place with walls that don’t yet know your secrets and a change of scenery for a pair of sore, tired eyes that have been ready and waiting for change. And the decorating, organizing, and “breaking-in” a new kitchen with a batch of home-made Snickerdoodles and choosing, with a great deal of seriousness, which pictures should be displayed on the refrigerator door. Then there’s always the calm after the storm. A couple of days after settling in and unpacking and getting a feel for the new place, whether you’re single or with companion, there’s that moment after the chaos has blown over and you can actually enjoy a glass of Chardonnay in front of the TV or eat not take-out on your own dishes, and then you realize how worth it it was for the new beginning. That’s the light at the end of the moving-isn’t-fun-at-all tunnel. I’m looking forward to it. My only hope is that my sanity is still in tact. And don’t worry, I’ve taken caution to pack that, as well as my general sense of emotional stability, up with as much care as my finest Pottery Barn dinner plates, and have marked that box “fragile.”


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July 27, 2012