One of the really fun things about being an adult is the unlimited opportunity for shouldering responsibilities you’d really rather not be involved in at all… in this case, moving. Moving. Again.
Now, I didn’t just wake up one morning with a crazy whim to suddenly pack everything I own into boxes and move to a different state, although that definitely seems like something I’d do. Moving is unfortunately part and parcel (many, many parcels) of getting divorced. Divorced. Again.
That’s a different story for a different day, but suffice it to say Ms. Turner is well on her way to becoming the next Elizabeth Taylor.
So, I began packing up my entire household of stuff, which is A LOT of stuff, including many irreplaceable treasures, such as a third-place trophy for a tap duet I was half of in fourth grade, as well as several file folders of Verizon cell phone statements from 2003. You know, the important stuff. As you may have surmised, no undertaking that ever involves me is a small feat. I am the kind of person who, if told I had to move to a desert island with only three items, would still manage to sneak in an additional item, and it would be something really vital. Like a cartridge for a non-working inkjet printer.
It took no time at all, then, for the many cardboard boxes in the living room to begin looking like a life-sized game of Tetris. Any time in my life I’ve ever had to pack up and move, which is more than I even care to count, I always start with the best of intentions. Nice, sturdy boxes. Packing tape. A Sharpie. Knick-knacks lovingly swathed in bubble wrap. All the coffee mugs neatly arranged in a box clearly labeled, “Kitchen: Coffee Mugs.” Paige Turner on Packing: Day One is the valedictorian of packing. Martha Stewart would approve. Cut to the last day of packing. Boxes don’t close, they’re labeled “More Crap,” and they contain a random assortment of items completely unrelated to one another. You may laugh at this, but I definitely packed a box which included soccer cleats, extension cords, and a can of creamed corn.
If the mania of packing weren’t enough to completely put you off of moving, it only becomes worse when you try to ask for help with loading up and transporting all these horrible boxes. Suddenly everyone you know has relocated to the Bermuda Triangle, or has a troubling lower back problem. When you do manage to rope some poor saps into helping you, they miraculously become professional moving experts. Start with the big boxes! Use your blankets as padding! Put the mattresses on top of everything!
Perhaps the worst part of moving is that it JUST. DOESN’T. END. I believe they should rewrite the movie, “The Never-Ending Story,” but update it to feature thirty-somethings moving boxes that have never been unpacked, from house to house, and even a year or two after moving, still rooting around in a box of newspapers.
The biggest takeaway I have to offer after all is said and done is that if you feel the urge to move… DON’T. And if you can marry Richard Burton (twice!), do it.