My life is boxes and bubble wrap.
Moving is terrible under any circumstances, but getting ready to pack and move all my belongings the 650 miles from Boston to Northeast Ohio feels like a special kind of personal torture. How did I accumulate all this stuff? Who the fork needs this much stuff?
Since deciding to move a few months ago, I haven’t been able to look directly at the moving project because it’s been too big and overwhelming. I’ve also been working 50+ hours a week up until this past Friday, because it turns out moving is super expensive as well as zero fun. As a result, I’ve gone through the five stages of grief with respect to packing:
1. Denial: “There’s not that much stuff to pack, this won’t be that big of a deal at all. I definitely have time to rewatch all of Psych instead of think about this.”
2. Anger: “WHY DO WE HAVE ALL THESE BOOKS? BOOKS ARE FOR NERDS AND LOSERS! THEY’RE JUST STUPID HEAVY BLOCKS OF POOR LIFE CHOICES!”
3. Bargaining: “Ok, how many couches do we actually need to live with? Would I be happier just setting one of these on fire in the parking lot?”
4. Depression: “Nothing matters, this move is doomed, I may as well watch Vanderpump Rules until I get evicted.”
5. Acceptance: “As long as I’m watching Vanderpump Rules, I guess I should get some packing done.”
Now that I’m here with the move just a few days away, it does seem like thankfully everything is going to fall into place. It’s just a matter of saying some final goodbyes and doing my best not to let my graduation goggles get the best of me. Everything in a place seems beautiful and good when you’re about to leave it, which I guess is the magical upside to moving.
I love and appreciate all the friends and experiences I’ve had here, and I’m going to miss them a lot. But it’s good to moving on and into my next chapter.
I also love and appreciate all my books. I’m sorry I said all those mean things about you. It was just the move talking.