Today, I turned everything I own into something that looks a little like this:
This is just one room. The kitchen and family room look nearly identical to this one.
Oh yeah. All my clothes are in the kitchen. I’m sitting at our table eating some rice and staring at all of my suits. It’s odd.
Moving is something I’m accustomed to, as are most grad and post-grad folks. When filling out my respective bar applications, I had to list each place I’d lived during the last 10 years. It took days to track everything down, and necessitated a thorough search of my undergrad’s Res Life website, as well as a call to my grandmother so that she could read me the items she’d crossed out in her rolodex.
While I’m not always sure exactly where I … or my stuff… have been, the actual moving also presents a lot of questions.
Do I really need a red feather boa? (Yes.)
Mardi-gras beads? (No.)
8 pairs of pants I can’t fit into anymore? (Mixed verdict.)
A George Foreman Grill? (Yes. This is why those pants don’t fit.)
Deciding what to take has always been a battle. You don’t want to over-pack, but the realization that you will be leaving and, for the first time, hardly ever coming back, hits hard. And makes you throw a healthy amount of unnecessary trinkets into the boxes.
I knew today that I was moving for good when I packed away a scrapbook or two. They’ve never made their way into the boxes; they are the sort of thing I take out when I am at home, on vacation, and feeling nostalgic.
My nostalgia won’t intersect with my parents’ home for quite some time. The cost, distance, lack of vacation, and most importantly the workload will keep me away more than I’d like.
The boxes don’t really bother me; they’re a staple in my life. Eating all of the perishables is also old-hat.
But when a friend calls, and invites you to her birthday dinner two plus weeks away, and you remind her that you won’t live here…
And when your speech kids say with enthusiasm, “but you’ll be here for districts, right? State, right?” and then you have to tell them that no, you won’t be back…
…even though you’d choose watching them raise their arms and voices in victory over most anything…
you realize that not only is your stuff in those boxes,
but your life is, too.
Get it while it’s hot, folks. Curtain closes on the 27th.