I’m moving tomorrow! Do you know how many boxes I have packed, for moving, tomorrow, first thing in the morning? If you did not hold up any of your fingers at all, and instead shook your head sadly at me and sighed, long and hard, and wondered if I’d ever make anything of myself, well, you’d be right. I have no boxes packed, and I am supposed to be moving, tomorrow. No, not supposed to be–I have to move tomorrow. There is no other day for moving. Tomorrow, that is the day I move, come a water-soaked hell of my own making.
It’s been busy, here in my house, and I have had visitors, and then so much work to catch up on, and then extra work piled on, and then I went away for the weekend, and then I ran out of excuses and my house still remained–remains–unpacked, and mocking me with the freedom of all its goods, just sitting around unboxed and uncarryable. Can’t we just ferry individual books out into the U-Haul and up the stairs and place them gently in various positions around the floor of the apartment? Can’t we line to grab a handful of spoons and fill our pockets with socks and carry a pot on our head and a toaster in our pants and march over to the new place? Why’s it got to be a whole rigamarole, with the boxes and the tape and the putting things in boxes and then taping them up and then carrying them and then breaking all the tape I just carefully applied and unboxing everything? It seems very inefficient.
It won’t take very long, though. That’s the good thing. It should take
like, an hour max to throw a couple of boxes into shape and then load
stuff up and stick them in the corner. I just need to get up and
assemble the suckers, which are sitting in my office in a giant stack,
and find some tape and some markers and some labels because the boxes
have been scribbled over so many times if I want to know what’s in
them, I’m going to have to label the suckers all organized and stuff.
And then I just have to put on some rockin’ music which is loud and
which I can sing along to (I will create a Bon Jovi Pandora station, I think), and before I know
it, I will be so finished and sipping sangria out on the front stoop, watching the cat get into wacky
hijinx, and wondering what all the fuss was, and why I have got to
complain about everything.
And then, tomorrow, I move, with the help of the wonderful boys who say that it’s going to take like, an hour max to
take all those stacked up boxes out to the truck and then drive them
five blocks away and then carry them up three flights of stairs and
drop on the floor with a lot of hate and animosity toward me and my
propensity for buying heavy stuff that no one could possibly have any
use for. I am sure they will say, “Really, Anne? You really need a desk?
What are you actually going to do with a television, a futon, or seven
boxes of shoes? Why don’t we just leave it all for your crazy landlord to sell for crystal meth?” And at some point, when it is
100 degrees and I hate my life, I will agree. And then moving,
tomorrow, she will be a breeze.