It’s two minutes before midnight, and I’m winding down. My days are beginning to have a routine to them. In the morning, visit the new home site and make sure the electrician and the plumber are working according to plans. In the afternoon, work. In the evening, meet with the packers who are packing our possessions so that we can accomplish everything in time for the moving truck that takes items to auction on Friday, also known as Day Seventeen. After that, collapse. Then do it again the next day.
Moving is like giving birth. You plan for it for a certain amount of time; yet, when it arrives you are amazed at the work involved. And how it upends your life. But you adjust. You also forget the painful parts, so that when you do it again you’re up for it. And then, when the actual time comes, the pain returns and you ask yourself, “What am I doing here?”
If I had given birth as many times as I’ve moved, I would probably have realized the work involved and done something about it. Maybe I would have even stayed put. But the gypsy in me forgets each time, and I set about packing and boxing with no regret. The truth is I set about childbirth the same way.
Leave a Reply