Here's to all those times I said I liked being busy: this month has really made me eat my words. I think I've reached uncharted territory in terms of being overcommitted. If you don't know, having a busy job/work life, moving, planning a wedding, and occasionally trying to fit in an errand or a meal or a workout or some sleep, is a lot of work. But it's the last day of May, and I'm still alive, so I'm counting that as victory!
Y'all, moving is possibly one of the worst experiences a person can have. Somehow, when you start packing, you think to yourself, "I don't have that much stuff after all - this will be easy!" And then, before you know it, it's 10 am on moving day and everyone is here to take your stuff and it just keeps popping out from nowhere and you're running out of boxes and people are trying to take your trash pile down to the moving truck, because that's what the rest of your stuff looks like too, and then once you somehow get everything loaded, moved, and unloaded, you find yourself surrounded by boxes in an unfamiliar apartment, and your cat's freaking out because he doesn't know what stairs are. Or maybe that's just what happens to me.
The worst part has been that it just won't end. I feel like I've been moving for six days. There are still boxes everywhere (although the place looks slightly more like a home and slightly less like the set of a disaster movie), I only just finished getting everything out of the old place and still haven't "checked out" of there, and I just found out that all my hard work putting the kitchen and bathroom stuff in cabinets was wasted, because there's an exterminator coming on Wednesday who demands that I remove all of it from said cabinets for spraying purposes. Also, this place is far away from where I used to live, and every morning I'm late to work because I forget how much further I have to drive. I'm obviously not quite as familiar with the neighborhood as I'd like to think - this morning I went running, and I got confused, and my 3 mile day turned into a 5.5 mile day. In a thunderstorm. At 6 am. Whoops!
And yet, I think this place has potential. If I ever get my stuff unpacked, I can tell this place can be a home, not just the place I sleep and keep my groceries and my cat. It's an older building, and I think that gives it more character than my previous apartment had. It's less college, and more real adult life, and it feels like the beginning of something, even while gazing helplessly at an endless pile of cardboard boxes, coffee cup clenched in one hand like it's going to help me fix the problem. This is the place where I will be a wife for the first time, where we will make memories and laugh and cry and hang up pictures and buy new furniture. I'll cook meals on that stove, bake cookies in that oven, make the house smell like coffee every morning. I'll leave my shoes by the door and throw my clothes on the floor instead of hanging them up like I'm supposed to. The boy will probably leave dishes in the sink and will provide the addition of several (lovely, I'm sure) pieces of artwork prominently featuring golf, which I'll have to hang somewhere (second bedroom? just kidding).
That's what's lovely about moving, despite how unpleasant it can be. You're moving on, you're packing up your life, you're letting go of the times you spent in the place you used to live, but you're headed towards something. It's new, it's an adventure, and it may be full of boxes now, but in a few months, it will be full of friends and memories and laughter and tears and life. That's the hope that keeps me going, and I find it to be worth celebrating.
Y'all, moving is possibly one of the worst experiences a person can have. Somehow, when you start packing, you think to yourself, "I don't have that much stuff after all - this will be easy!" And then, before you know it, it's 10 am on moving day and everyone is here to take your stuff and it just keeps popping out from nowhere and you're running out of boxes and people are trying to take your trash pile down to the moving truck, because that's what the rest of your stuff looks like too, and then once you somehow get everything loaded, moved, and unloaded, you find yourself surrounded by boxes in an unfamiliar apartment, and your cat's freaking out because he doesn't know what stairs are. Or maybe that's just what happens to me.
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| Kitty in a box. |
The worst part has been that it just won't end. I feel like I've been moving for six days. There are still boxes everywhere (although the place looks slightly more like a home and slightly less like the set of a disaster movie), I only just finished getting everything out of the old place and still haven't "checked out" of there, and I just found out that all my hard work putting the kitchen and bathroom stuff in cabinets was wasted, because there's an exterminator coming on Wednesday who demands that I remove all of it from said cabinets for spraying purposes. Also, this place is far away from where I used to live, and every morning I'm late to work because I forget how much further I have to drive. I'm obviously not quite as familiar with the neighborhood as I'd like to think - this morning I went running, and I got confused, and my 3 mile day turned into a 5.5 mile day. In a thunderstorm. At 6 am. Whoops!
And yet, I think this place has potential. If I ever get my stuff unpacked, I can tell this place can be a home, not just the place I sleep and keep my groceries and my cat. It's an older building, and I think that gives it more character than my previous apartment had. It's less college, and more real adult life, and it feels like the beginning of something, even while gazing helplessly at an endless pile of cardboard boxes, coffee cup clenched in one hand like it's going to help me fix the problem. This is the place where I will be a wife for the first time, where we will make memories and laugh and cry and hang up pictures and buy new furniture. I'll cook meals on that stove, bake cookies in that oven, make the house smell like coffee every morning. I'll leave my shoes by the door and throw my clothes on the floor instead of hanging them up like I'm supposed to. The boy will probably leave dishes in the sink and will provide the addition of several (lovely, I'm sure) pieces of artwork prominently featuring golf, which I'll have to hang somewhere (second bedroom? just kidding).
That's what's lovely about moving, despite how unpleasant it can be. You're moving on, you're packing up your life, you're letting go of the times you spent in the place you used to live, but you're headed towards something. It's new, it's an adventure, and it may be full of boxes now, but in a few months, it will be full of friends and memories and laughter and tears and life. That's the hope that keeps me going, and I find it to be worth celebrating.
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