It’s 7:45 on Wednesday night.
There’s too much to be done between now and when the movers arrive at 9am Saturday, but instead of packing feverishly, I’m on the bed in my jammies with the polar bears, the laptop screen illuminating my face and washed but unbrushed hair. Jackson Browne is on downstairs trying to motivate me but the television has sucked me in and has partially drowned him out. I’ve moved three times in the last three years and really – if The Mc is at the gym avoiding working around here, why shouldn’t I?
Oh right, OCD.
Doesn’t seem to have a hold on me tonight.
The house looks like it’s being squatted in by a team of lactating he-she crack whores. Even the bedroom is a shambles. There’s an empty box in front of the armoire, waiting for me to pack up my relocated turtles. They’re here only because I couldn’t bear to pack them away in order to show the house as part of some witness relocation program. Nevermind the man behind the curtain or the turtles behind the doors. My nightstand books are in an unclosed box next to their recently vacated home, every ounce of laundry I’ve done in the last two weeks is strewn over the chair and ottoman, the bedding from the front guest room is in a heap by the door because I didn’t have it in me to fold it when someone came to buy the bed they used to cover.
My couch and over stuffed chair – the one from another lifetime that I bought because of the hint of red in the accent pillows that perfectly matched the cranberry I’d painted the living room – gone now. Sold. Purged. Resized.
My artwork is leaned against the walls downstairs (his pieces are still hiding in various closets throughout the house – banished when I moved in), my mom’s china half packed, the stockpile of crystal vases and jars and candle holders I never use or display are on top of the hutch waiting for private transport.
Boxes, boxes, boxes are piled in every room, flagged with either neon green or neon pink sheets of paper with the abbreviations STOR or APT respectively marked on them with a big, fat, Marks-a-lot.
Saturday night we’ll go to sleep in our new cement room, in the city but still on the west siiiiiiiiide.
I’ll be able to step out my front door and run again, no cursing the hill into the neighborhood for discouraging me. I’ll be minutes from the office and minutes from friends (sadly minutes further from other key friends…) with fewer potholes and steel sheets and washboard roads between there and anywhere. I’m not going to miss not knowing my neighbors or living in a house entirely too big for two people and their cats, but I’ll miss the hummingbirds and robins and bluebirds and the wall of green behind the house and maybe – just maybe – the quiet, too. I need to write things down for the new homeowners, moving here from Seattle. Where the closest PetSmart is and the fastest way in town on backroads, and I’ll leave them paper towels and TP and garbage bags. Soon, I’ll spend less time in the car, more time with me – use less gas, reduce my carbon footprint. I’ll be living more simply and with less of my things than I have in a decade and a half. Things that have always offered me comfort and safety when I had none.
Crap. There’s the garage door – better go pretend I was being productive…