Oh, snap! That was a bit of a misleading title, because as it turns out, I don't actually have any. Moving sucks, and we are right in the middle of the suckitude, and I mean smack bang right in the eye of it. And I know the next thing you're going to say is "well, wait until you do it with kids!" but here's the thing: I kind of am a kid when it comes to moving. I procrastinate and sigh heavily and throw bedsheets into boxes with cereal bowls and I'm constantly asking are we there yet? are we there yet? are we there yet? because I'm just so ready to be done. You'd think by now, having moved so many times in my life, that I'd be a pro at it, but I actually just get worse and worse.
The thing with moving is that it always takes so much longer than you think it will. If you think it'll take two days, it takes four. If you think it'll take four days, it takes a week. If you think it will take five days and yet you're also trying to do it in conjunction with a couple of other DIY projects at your new house, it takes a zillion years times an eternity times infinity times a googleplex---I just wanted to use the word googleplex---and sometimes you will wake up in the morning thinking WILL I EVER BE DONE? At this point, I suggest you grab a beer. Why, I'm drinking a beer right now, in fact, and it's a horrible kind that I don't even like, something really dark and wheaty that Sean bought, but I don't care, because it is making me less and less likely, with every sip, to slit my wrists with the serrated edge of the packing tape.
I guess the bright side of moving, if there is one, is that you know it's eventually going to be over. Of course, then you'll be out of the hell of packing up and straight into the fresh hell of unpacking everything you packed up yesterday, but at least it's a different kind of hell, I guess, one peppered with the sporadic frisson of excitement that comes with deciding where to put the spice rack in your new kitchen. Don't pretend like that doesn't make you happy.
My life feels like it's exploded in the last week, actually, as I got a new job a few days ago, so while I would normally have a slight workday reprieve from the shallow hyperventilating I'm doing in my home life, I'm actually double-majoring in hyperventilation at the moment, indulging in it from nine to five as well. The job is with the same company I've been with for three and a half years, so at least I don't have to learn any new names or figure out a special photcopier etiquette or anything, but it's a much more expanded and specialized role with things like ownership and manager and you are in charge of this so don't eff it up attached to it, which is 98 percent thrilling and two percent OH HOLY CRAP. Also, the day the email was sent out to the entire company making it official, I was walking around the office like this:
Yes, I WAS painting over the weekend, now that you mention it. How could you tell?
If that isn't just the most professional thing you've seen, I don't know what is! Don't you want to put me in charge of something? Don't I look detail-oriented and capable? I'm not sure why I don't just attach this photo to every one of my resumes in the future!
Anyway, I must get back to packing---I hear Sean swearing at some coathangers in the background, which is never a good sign---but I just wanted to let you know that I hadn't died, that I'm still here, and that once the movers get here on Thursday, and then we spend the weekend cleaning and repairing the old apartment, and then next Monday through Wednesday just trying to find a DAMN PLATE WHERE ARE THE PLATES WHO PACKED THESE BOXES in the new one, we shall be over the chaos and hopefully somewhere near normal again. Until then, it's back to the hell of moving. Please tell me you've done this too. Please tell me you survived.