A funny thing that was, as my mother would say, Not funny ha-ha, but funny peculiar.
I want to begin by saying that I am an expert mover. Really. Or at least I used to be. After I left home at 16, I moved. A lot. In fact, at one point, in my mid-thirties, I actually calculated how many times I had moved in those 20 years—it worked out to an average of 1.5 times per year. As you can imagine, I became very good at it.
And it wasn’t that I was without possessions. I had furniture and books and dishes and clothes and a whole pile of art and… You get the picture. I wasn’t just moving a futon and a couple of milk cartons worth of kitchen ware. No, I was moving the whole shebang, the big enchilada.
Each time I moved, I had accumulated more stuff, but because I did it often, I didn’t think of it as difficult; I just thought of it as a regular part of my life. And maybe that’s the difference.
Because it isn’t a regular part of my life anymore. Oh, I still move, but it’s every four or five or, occasionally, ten years, rather than every 1.5 years. What that means is that I’ve lost my moving chops. Completely.
This time was hell.
One of the things I would have remembered if I’d kept my moving regularly routine was that it’s actually easier to move everything at once rather than moving over a month—which is what I did this time. The exhaustion, when spaced out over a month, just keeps accumulating. If you do it all at once? Yes, it’s exhausting but only once, rather than 10 or 15 or 20 times over the month.
No, I didn’t have to wrap everything up so it wouldn’t break, but I did have to pack it, take it over to the new place—sometimes three or four trips a day—and unpack it. I had this idea that I would only end up with 10 or 15 boxes. That, too, was wrong. I still have 40 boxes that aren’t unpacked. Why?
Because last week, when I was beginning to unpack some of those boxes, I tripped over one of them and dropped to the slate floor. Now I have a slight concussion, which means I can’t unpack the boxes, can’t organize the walk-in closet which holds most of my clothes and accessories still packed into various suitcases and boxes, can’t get back to the gym, and can’t race around as I usually do.
So I’ve learned my lesson; make that lessons.
One, I’m not 20 or even 30 any more. Two, spreading a move out over a month is a very bad idea. Three, I’m not moving ever again unless I can afford to have someone come in, pack everything up, move it, and then unpack it for me. Four, I guess I’m not ever moving again J
Image courtesy of Victor Habbick/FreeDigitalPhotos.net