I'd Rather Be Shopping
I don't think there's a word to describe the depth of my feelings about moving. Hate is too ordinary. Abhor might work, but it's not quite strong enough. Loathe doesn't have the necessary venom. You get the idea. Moving is not exactly on my top ten list of favorite ways to spend my time.
These feelings do little to explain why I've packed up and moved eight times in the past nine years. I don't know if I'm a glutton for punishment or just plain stupid, but I can't seem to stick to a place. I've moved down the street, I've scampered across the country, and I've puddle-jumped across the Atlantic. Multiple times. To top it off, my husband and I are looking at another move in six short months, after only seven months in our current apartment.
Something is seriously wrong with this equation.
My first moves were haphazard affairs--candle sticks mixed with CDs; tampons thrown in mixing bowls; dirty clothes, clean towels, and old sheets stuffed into busting garbage bags. These disorganized messes quickly taught me that the only thing worse than packing up and moving was unpacking--especially when I had no idea what I would find, or if my belongings would be intact. At some point I stopped opening boxes. I still have a few unopened boxes from three or four moves ago that need to be thrown out.
That's when I realized that as much as I hated the process of moving, as much as I wanted to ignore the whole thing and make it go away, my life could only be made simpler if I did it right.
Now my moves start months in advance. I go through closets and donate any clothes that I don't wear regularly to charity. Ditto decorations, dishes, books, and other random possessions that don't bring me absolute joy. I suppose I could do the smart thing and try to sell it on E-bay, but I don't have the patience required for that. Instead I drop it all off at whatever local charity happens to be closest and wish them luck.
Then the packing starts. Books go first. My husband and I have over a thousand books, and they seem to spend the majority of their time in moving boxes. Since meeting each other we've given away at least half of our collections because we couldnt face the possibility of moving books we didn't adore, but even after a major weeding we still have too many books with emotional attachments. We can't leave them behind.
Our apartment slowly starts finding its way into boxes, and we find that we really can live without pretty paintings, eight place settings, every kitchen gizmo ever invented, and a plethora of board games.
This makes the eventual move easier, but the whole process still makes me want to curl up in a ball and wish it would somehow magically happen on its own.
My life has been uprooted so many times in the past few years that I can't even enjoy my former favorite hobby--buying useless pretties. Before I put a candle holder in my shopping cart I ask myself if it's worth packing up and moving. The answer is inevitably no. Sweet little pictures of babies dressed as fairies must remain at the store. Cheap plastic tumblers that'd be perfect for serving cold drinks on a hot day don't find their way into my kitchen. The queen of clutter has become a minimalist. And I don't like it! I miss my useless decorations. They may serve no practical purpose, but they make me smile.
Maybe one of these days I'll find myself in possession of the perfect house in the perfect location. Maybe one of these days I won't need to traipse across the country for a job or a man. Maybe one of these days I'll be able to think of the word "moving" without absolute dread in my heart.