Two weeks ago, I moved out of my mother and brother’s house, where I’ve been renting a room the past two years, to an apartment in a small city to the south. I haven’t been blogging lately, because the only thing on my mind is unpacking. I can’t seem to function if my life is in boxes.
I approached unpacking like a system, this after moving a dozen times since college. I unpacked each room first and as I did so, planned ahead where I would put categories of items. To describe this process would be too much of a how-to article and make me sound a bit nerdy. I don’t want anyone to know the truth about how I like everything to be in its place.
That’s why these two weeks, I’ve been late, saying the wrong words and stopping mid-sentence and wondering, “What am I thinking about?”
Then there was the whole sentimental part of unpacking. I found items I forgot I had, as well as items that brought up memories. I did a little dance when I found this journal I thought I had lost during my last move. I paused over my photo albums, flipping through periods of my life, hastily to get on to more unpacking.
And then I got mad. The glass inserts for my coffee and end tables were totally shattered. The moving company I hired for my cross-country move two years ago was lousy, to say the least. I had most of my stuff in storage and have just discovered many problems with the movers I hired. They scratched several pieces of furniture, stained my white couch, cut my ottoman and smashed down boxes, but luckily the things inside were unharmed.
My emotional landscape from the move went from elation – I am living in a vaulted ceiling, many-windowed, all-new apartment with a view of downtown – to reminiscing to anger, but as my mother said, this, too, shall pass.