Blogatron

Plotz, Plotz, Move, Move, Oh...Crap.

Hello!! Do you know what it is? It is almost August! August, among its many other qualities, like being hot, and being the month that you would simultaneously really settle into summer vacation and also begin to realize that it was getting close to over, is, this year, the last month before we move. FOUR WEEKS. FOUR WEEKS TILL THE MOVE. I will now proceed to get the vapors.

I am not a good mover, although I am an excellent moving assistant. People never believe this because of how generally inactive and cranky I am, but you totally want me on your team when you are moving. I will go up and down the stairs 3,000 times, without, uncharacteristically, a single peep of complaint. I will carry all the boxes you give me. I will think bruises are marks of honor. In the late afternoon, when everyone is sitting on the back of the truck, legs dangling off the edge, stupid and slow with tiredness, contemplating the rest of the junk that needs hauling with grim horror, I am the one who will jump up and get a second wind and just dash it all inside like it was nothing. There are not too many things I will unreservedly crow about, but my skill as a moving helper is undeniable.

Asked to move my own house, however, I fall apart. I hate the tick-tock sense of impending doom, and the increasing feeling that my precious nest is endangered. I hate how good I am at imagining all my stuff stolen, broken, smashed on the street, not fitting in the new house, accidentally left behind, wrinkled, bent when it said "Do Not Bend," entirely disrespected.

I hate packing. I hate being reminded of what a fucking moron I am for keeping all this crap, as it all tumbles out of its closets and drawers and other hidey holes. I hate that even so, I won't get rid of most of it. I hate how you can pack so many boxes that you can't get into the bedroom, and make nary a dent in the things remaining to be packed. I hate the things that are always left over in the end, fated to be packed into 500 boxes marked "Living Room - MISC." and "??????!," and how one of those boxes will always contain that one thing you need to make breakfast the morning after the move. I hate all those things that you don't see at all until you think you've packed everything and then suddenly there are 5,000 extension cords, there is the fan, there is the curtain rod, these are not part of the house and we will have to pack them too. I hate doing the dirty laundry/clean sheets/things we'll need right away juggling act.

I hate worrying about whether it will all fit in the truck. I hate worrying about whether the truck will fit down the street or whether there will be a place to park the truck. I hate renting the truck, driving the truck (not that I usually do), riding in the truck, and creating unlikely scenarios in which the truck is blown up and we have to buy U-Haul a new truck.

I hate the loading and carrying that I am so good at when it's other people's stuff, just because by that point I have worn myself out with outlandish concerns and ridiculous, last-minute packing.

Last night I realized that, what with work and some scheduled activities coming up, there are a total of six unobligated days between now and Moving Week. SIX DAYS. THERE ARE SIX PACKING DAYS TILL THE MOVE.