I hate moving. I really do hate it. It’s like the pain of childbirth. You really do forget until the very hour, nay, the very moment you start wiping out the cupboard under the sink.
How have I managed to live in this level of filth and grime this entire time? I just made Paul carry away 12 kitchen bags full of trash today! 12! I had no idea it was so bad until I cleared out every cupboard, drawer and closet, only to find weird stuff that I don’t remember buying, let alone breaking and consequently storing up on a high shelf to be fixed later. I honestly don’t know if I packed up more boxes or threw out more trash. Please tell me you live this way too, because I am one step away from logging onto Oprah.com and turning myself in.
I can’t wait to get to the new house. I don’t mind unpacking one bit. It’s like playing house. Everything is one big clean slate and I get to thoughtfully choose which drawer to make the utensil drawer, where to put the vases, pictures, couches and beds. I get to say words like “feng shui” and “let’s dash off to Ikea!” I’m already picturing new pillows and imagining color schemes (never you mind our new circa 1972 pad features avocado fixtures, ballet pink walls, and rust-orange carpet. The key word here is “fusion.”) It’s going to be fab.
Just get me out of this sea of boxes!