13 actually. 13 paper boxes full of books, dvds, and things that will probably get broken in transit despite their many layered protective newspaper cocoons. theoretically, this should be good news (especially for my breakables). but really, i’ve got 4 days until my movers show up, and i’ve only packed about 1/8 of everything i own. and that was the easy bit. unfortunately, the rest of my apartment is far less square and regular than my book and dvd collections.
and now, here i am, watching netflix and writing instead of playing through the pain and packing up my kitchen implements before i have time to forget that i’m moving and accidentally get them all dirty again.
thing is, i don’t want to move.
this is my first home. i have all these goofy pictures of us signing the paperwork and giddily writing out the escrow checks. our mortgage lender brought us a bottle of champagne at closing. it took us 3 trips to the lumber liquidators to choose the strand woven bamboo flooring. i was so proud to finally be shaking off the rent monster and the last vestiges of aimless early twenty-hood (which for me lasted well into early thrity-hood).
i love this place. i picked out the paint and the furniture and the layout. i placed every single knickknack. every molecule of this place belongs to me from the pink toaster to the perfect victorian light fixture in my lavender (technically “party dress” according to martha stewart) studio. i have a studio!
or rather, i HAD a studio. with gold plastic parakeets on the door. and now i have to pack up my parakeets in copy paper boxes and move them into the bachelor hole, where i’m more than positive that there isn’t even close to enough space for me or all my once grown up accoutrements.
so for the last month and a half (i knew i was moving the whole time), i have shopped, and slept, and gone out every night of the week. i came home every night soaked in bourbon and denial. i hid the moving boxes in a closet and pretended they weren’t there.
so now, i have 4 days to put my whole life into boxes… and i can’t seem to focus long enough to get…
and that’s where i blacked out and woke up on the couch at 4 am and then staggered up to bed. blog post unfinished, and boxes unpacked.
the same thing happened the next day. i would pack the kitchen, and then sit down on the couch to write (and by write, i mean browse reddit), and black out again, waking at 4 am, boxes unpacked.
the next day, i might have passed out on the floor of my studio in a mound of art books frustratingly too large to fit into a paper box. but the central theme remains the same.
by saturday however (movers coming at 10 am the next day), i had reached a point of clarity. no amount of filibustering would make me not have to move. whether i was reading, sleeping, writing, watching every episode of “bones” on netflix instant, looking relentlessly for that 4th cutco knife i knew that i owned but couldn’t find, scrubbing the dust off the top of all the spice jars, unpacking and repacking boxes to fit in one last item of the same category, or washing all my dishes by hand before packing them… not packing was only going to make moving a more gruesome and unpleasant experience.
saturday night, as i frantically threw whatever into whichever containers were in closest proximity, my moment of clarity sounded something like this:
YOU’VE TOTALLY SCREWED THE POOCH.
you’ve been fucking off for weeks, and now you have 10 hours to pack everything you own and then move it into your new place which definitely isn’t big enough for all of your shit and is totally going to piss of your new roommate.
i packed furiously through the night and deliriously staggered through the rest of the day. it was terrible. my new place was apparently built by m.c. escher, and my movers weren’t sure if any of my furniture would fit (eventually, after they disassembled some and called in a 3rd guy, they made it work). there was A LOT of crying. for several days. i may recount some of the more grim moments later on, but for now, let’s just say that moving has been tough. unpacking (still working on that), getting my dog acclimated (i had to leave notes for my neighbors about the barking), getting used to living with another person with wildly differing practices and habits, sleeping alone, cooking for 1…
i won’t lie and say it’s not a bummer. two weeks in and it’s still the biggest bummer ever. i’m actually running home to see my mom this weekend, because that’s what you do when you’re wading through the mire of bummertown USA. that, and buy an ipad. but we’ll talk about that later.