Life in Boxes

We are moving. We are not moving far (our new home is only about fifteen minutes drive from the old one), but, as many times as I have moved, I have never been able to take much comfort in proximity. Even if we were moving only next door, we would still have to load up absolutely everything that we own and haul it over to the new place and set it down. And if there is more than a block involved, we must bring in a truck to haul everything. There is simply no way around that.

Over the years, I have discovered that there are basically three phases to moving:

(1) "This won't be so bad." No matter how many times I move, I manage to utter these ridiculously optimistic words. It is so easy to say them as I look vaguely around my home while everything remains neatly in its place. "We don't even have that much stuff," I say. "A couch, some bookshelves, a few beds - how hard could it be really?"

Which brings me to the next phase...

(2) "This is a lot more work than I thought it would be." Inevitably, these words are spoken on Day #2 of moving, when I begin to box up my books. The five cute little boxes that I had optimistically assembled clear only the first three shelves. And that's when I remember that the larger furniture items (the couch, bookshelves, and beds) form only a tiny fraction of the actual moving experience. I look around now and see an overwhelming array of smaller things - dishes, lamps, curtains, toys ... each of which must be packed, moved, and unpacked. My back hurts just thinking about it. My shoulder is already pulling out of joint. My head swims with the very thought of doing all this work, and so ....

(3) "Let's just burn the house down."

As much as my husband understands the sentiment, he dreads this phase, because it means that his wife is on the verge of Packing-Induced Hysterics. "We can't burn the house down," he patiently explains. "It would make an eyesore in the neighborhood, and people might resent it."

"Well, then, let's just park a dumpster outside and throw all of this away." This is my second and only slightly less alarming suggestion. "Who wants this couch anyway? It was second-hand when we got it and now it's all shabby."

"Yes, it is," my husband gently acknowledges, "but the real question is whether you would prefer the shabby couch rather than sitting on the floor. We have to pay a lot of deposits to get our utilities set up in the new place. We can't buy a houseful of new furniture. Perhaps you should go take a nap."

A nap usually proves to be the best treatment, and sometimes it is so effective that it resets us back to Phase #1.

Or so it has been in the past. This is my first time trying to move while being so ill, however, so naps aren't proving as effective as usual. With only half my bookshelf cleared, I find myself already on Phase #3. What are we to do?

Perhaps it is time to see how many of our friends will work for pizza ...