Moving and Packing

Movin' on Up to the East Side...again.

Up Up and Away!

As a child I loved packing, moving, and unpacking. I also loved airports and talking incessantly on the phone. In the past few years, I've come to like all of these things less. Less to the point of disliking them.

Every move since my BIG move to the BIG Apple has been more debilitating. I dread the boxes. I dread putting them together and I dread filling them. I dread stacking them for the movers and I dread unpacking them. I even dread breaking them down to push into the recesses under my bed because I know that saving them only means I'm going to be building them back again in a year or two or at most three.

I feel like the Virginia Wolf of moving.

I want to move. I'm ready to move. I need to move. But I just can't bear the reality of DOING it.

The part I struggle with is the pack rat in me is forced to die a slow and recurring death in the course of every move. It's just not feasible to hold onto that note Tracey slipped me between homeroom and Math in 10th grade. It's unnecessary to save the dried flowers from the corsage Norman gave me for senior prom. The dozens of get well cards from my residents the summer I was an RA and had eye surgery at Hopkins also must join the dust bunnies. The cards my mom sent me every week in college to cheer, jeer, or otherwise infuse fear in me must also make their way into the trash. In a way it's cathartic to give these up...time moves on, so must I.

But to decide which of my books get donated or sold or just piled in the trash room--that's the bigger struggle. The reality that all my babies can't come crushes me. They're just too heavy and I've either read them or I know I never will. The reams of paper, the spines unbent, the glossy jackets, and firmness of a hardcover all remind me of their lives unlived. I can only hope they find better home and that others in their litter never had to suffer in a foster home like mine.

Less of a struggle and more of a chore is sifting through the piles, stacks, untidy lumps of clothing. What to donate, what to just throw. The clothes that I moved in a year ago and have yet to wear, definitely go. The clothes I have worn and hated being in, should also go. The clothes that shrunk, faded or just bore probably need to go. The formal wear I never wear needs to go into storage or maybe sold. So much to do, so little time.

The thing about packing is that I'm tired just thinking about it. Planning out each energy zapping exertion that yields in another full box is exhausting. Yet as my moving day inches closer, I'm forced to consider my alternatives....NONE!

It's time to go. It's time to move on.