We’ve hired movers to ferry our worldly possessions to Ohio, but are keeping costs down by packing much of it ourselves. The professionals can have at the kitchen and every last pot and glass in there, though. I don’t do pots and glass, not at all. (I don’t do pots, she says.)
Eighteen years ago, losing everything in the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait felt terribly humiliating and oddly liberating all at once. Sure, I’d love to have my mama’s saris, baby photos, teddy bear and they-don’t-make-’em-like-that-no-more family heirlooms back, but did we really need all the rest of that stuff? My mind dithers between “Hey, those were my George Michael posters and Rick Astley tapes!” and “Thanks, some Iraqi dude, for violating the sanctity of our dwelling, taking that crap down for me and burning it in a giant pile along with our dark-brown wall-to-wall carpeting, which I never liked in the first place.” (There, mom, I said it.) So, let’s just say that my moves and the attendant sorting/trashing/packing of things are not without pathology. Hoard, hoard, hoard. Then, without reason or warning, shed, shed, shed, like none of it meant anything to me. My very own stuff vs. Who cares, it’s just stuff?
I’m sure some of you felt and still feel this way after Katrina and The Flood took all of your things.
Speaking of hurricanes, my house looks like one hit it. This sets into motion another pathology, the compulsive need for every last speck of dust in my immediate surroundings to exhibit order, symmetry and neatness. There’s nothing better than attempting to control nature and thus conquer the reality that you don’t control much of anything. So, what do I do all day these days? Sit at work and fret over all that is yet unpacked and OHMYGOD WE HAVE TO LEAVE TOWN IN A WEEK AND STUFF’S JUST SITTING THERE AND WE’RE GOING TO THROW EVERYTHING IN LARGE BOXES AT THE LAST MINUTE AND THE PILLOWS WILL BE SMOOSHED UNDER THE WEIGHTS AND DOES NO ONE CARE ABOUT THE CAMPING GEAR AND THE GUEST TOWELS AND WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!!!!1!! D is no help – he does as much as he can every evening and says, “Yes, we are, in fact, all going to die some day.”
And what do I do all evening these days? Attend farewell dinners because, even if my inner Monk wants to run home and pack until I fall asleep on top of the Glade smelly things, my heart knows that spending time with my friends for life is more important than stuff getting to Ohio. Things like that do take care of themselves. It’s a miracle. (Well, not really, but let’s pretend.)
Packing and moving. A mundane topic, I know, but one people get paid a lot of money to write self-help articles on.
Serenity now!
This, too, will pass.
Oh, the flashbacks to 2006 when Rebecca came down and took her job and I was left home alone to take care of the kids, pack and sell the house. I packed everything, including all the fragile stuff like glasses, framed art, knick-knacks: everything. I was surprised how well everything did in transit, but then I spent a fortune at U-Haul and got to be no a first name basis with the clerk who was there during my after work drop ins. Its an incredible experience to go through everything acquired in ten years of life (and things that had sat untouched for the 10 years in that house, some of it I’d had for ever). I threw out a lot (only after consulting with Rebecca by phone, and she still regrets letting the red suede boots go). It is not something I look forward to ever doing again but I took a great sense of accomplishment at getting it all done while keeping the house clean enough to show and the kids fed and dressed.
Let me know how your movers work out in case I need them. I’ve moved four times since the storm and I’m sick of it; this time I want Full Service.