The experts (whoever they are) say that moving is high on the list of stressful life events, coming in third only to divorce and death. While I’m not sure that I agree with the data, and would love to see their experimental design, what I can say is that beyond a shadow of a doubt, moving really sucks.
Last month, fellow Region writer Mariel and I decided to move into our own little writer’s den, and thus began what should have been a month of preparation. In reality it turned into a month of fantasizing about how amazing our new place was going to be, neglecting to put much effort into packing, and vaguely wondering if our new rent was too high.
Exactly why I was so naïve about the move going smoothly is, quite frankly, beyond me. I have moved many (many) times before, and with the exception of the time I bribed the two eighteen year old guys who lived next door to do it for me, moving has never come easy. It’s not that anything actually goes wrong–at least nothing major–but more to do with the incredible stress (and the mounting frustration and panic) that builds as the hours of the day dwindle, and your deadline looms before you. Suddenly those books you figured you’d just throw into a box actually need to be thrown into said box. Only, you don’t have said box, because said box was used to throw all of your cutlery into when you realized you had no way to move it.
And when you finally manage to throw all of your belongings into their respective boxes, you still need to deal with the stress of actually moving it all. Now it’s game-day and you’re frantically making sure you haven’t forgotten your passport under the kitchen sink when you suddenly begin to feel extreme anger towards everyone around you.
Even those who are helping you move aren’t fortunate enough to escape your wrath, and no amount of reasoning is going to make that feeling stop. The only way to deal is a hot bath, a set up bed, and some clean sheets to crawl into.
Yeah, moving sucks. But for the most part–after that bath, and perhaps a glass (bottle) of wine–the movement of the move is soon forgotten.
Maybe that’s the real reason I’m sitting in my new living room, writing about the terror of my move. I’m afraid I might forget how badly moving sucks and want to try it again.
I won’t though. Not anytime soon. Because looking around this gorgeous place, knowing that when my roommate comes home she’ll be happy to see me, makes it all worthwhile. If you’re lucky, the good parts of moving far outweigh the bad, and everything works out in the end.