We’re all moving, if only in the sense that the earth is spinning and that explains why most of the Facebook comments I read seem to come from someone who’s dizzy. It would also explain many of my own Facebook comments if beer had never been invented.
Thankfully beer was invented, so enough about that.
But I don’t mean that kind of moving.
I mean the kind of moving where you pack up all your filthy crap, put it in a truck and drive it to a new home.
Yeah, that kind of moving – the painful kind of moving.
I know there are many people out there who have moved more than I, but I’ve done my fair share of moving throughout the years and feel fully qualified to say, “moving sucks.”
To be very honest, I’ve have it easy. All the moves of my adult life, with the exception of one, were paid for via your hard-earned taxes. Thank you, America, you rock. Each and every move, either as a service member or as a government worker, has had professional movers associated with it. Strong men, sweating a lot, schlepping boxes of crap Dagmar hasn’t used since ever, into moving vans and then unloading them at the destination.
So to be very honest, some of you who move frequently and do it yourself have it much worse than I do.
But I’m still going to bitch and moan anyway because I can.
I think there are mental stages of moving. Honestly there are. At least for me there are. Maybe you just wake up one morning and yell out, “HOLY CRAP! HOW’D I GET INTO THIS NEW HOUSE?”
If you’re that person, I look up to you.
For me it’s all this:
- Denial: We’re not really moving, I know it SAYS we’re moving, but that’s like in the way distant future. Sure in a month stuff will be chaotic, but right now things are normal. Relax.
- Anger: To hell with this crap. I hate it. HATE IT. I used capital letters HATE IT!
- Painful acceptance: Fine, fuck it, we’re moving.
- The event: Move out day/Move in day
- Agony: Months and months of sheer pain and suffering that will follow.
So that’s a fun list isn’t it? Let’s dive right in and swim about in my pool filled with pain.
The month before the move, even though I know it’s going to happen, I completely and totally deny it. Part of my brain rebels against the reality of the move. Things are comfortable here at home. The curtains are hung on the windows the way Dagmar likes them, the pictures on the wall have been there so long they likely need to be dusted. And I know exactly where the confectionary sugar is stored in the kitchen.
That last bit is monumental because in just a few month’s time Dagmar will say the following again and again, “You don’t know where anything is do you? Jesus, do you even live here?” This will be uttered while I desperately check every drawer for the fourth time in a row for a spoon.
So yeah. I get why part of my brain rebels and say’s to me, “Relax. Things are okay for now.”
“GOD I’M TIRED OF THIS SHIT! Didn’t we just move into a new house like an hour ago? Why do we have to do it again so soon?” I think the anger part is really just a transition to the next painful acceptance phase, but it always cracks me up anyway.
“Damn it, I’m going to have to wash out the grill, take down all the pictures, patch up the holes, hide my extensive collection of 1980’s Madonna porn and figure out what to do with all these fucking plants! And who the hell brought these damned plants anyway? Aren’t most of them poisonous to cats? New fucking rule, no more plants ever!”
It’s a bunch of crap I tell you.
As if I’m shocked it occurs you know? I live and work in a field where moving is expected every three to five years. It’s so commonplace that everyone in my field accepts it. We all bitch about it, but only in roundabout ways. We’ve all become jaded too it.
This phase occurs on a Saturday morning. It occurs usually after a few cups of coffee, typically at about 10 a.m. Its when I drag my, otherwise-happy ass off the couch and start the oh-so-painful process of doing things I don’t want to do.
Again, it’s all about taking things off the walls, rolling up the rugs, unhooking the stereo, deciding where we will hide the cat while the movers are in the house, hiding dead hookers, ensuring the toolbox is in the car and not on the moving van and a lot of other crap you don’t care about.
This phase brutally drills into my head the following fact: Weekends are about to suck. Gone, for at least four months are, weekends that are all about relaxing and chilling out. In their place is a tireless ordeal of moving, sizing, shopping and hanging …
This is the eye of the moving storm. The strange part that should be painful but really isn’t. When the movers are boxing up the cat and loading the kitchen’s full trashcan into the truck there isn’t much to do other than watch them. That’s really it. OK, I feed them, I usually tip them, but that’s pretty easy and otherwise it’s really pretty much a non-event.
While doing a door-to-door move it’s always the same crew so move in day is no different. Give them something to eat, take care of the boss and then start living in a cardboard forest.
When I poop in the morning, there will be boxes in the bathroom.
My life for the next several weeks, while not at work, will focus on dealing with boxes. Opening boxes, breaking down boxes, stacking boxes, unpacking and yes repacking boxes, moving boxes from room to room, from floor to floor.
I will dream of boxes simply because they cannot be avoided during waking hours.
Two or three months after we move into the new house the following will occur: I will be convinced that this weekend, FINALLY THIS WEEKEND, Dagmar and I can just chill out all day and all night both days.
I will be painfully incorrect in this assumption because one of the following events will take place.
- Everything in the living room is ‘wrong’ and needs to be moved to the third floor of the house. Once there a “decision” will be made by Dagmar that the things in the living room were actually correct in the living room after all and everything will have to be moved back down three flights of stairs.
- Every photo, painting, wall ornament – if it’s stuck to the wall its game – will have to be moved. Which means even though I just put away the cordless drill, the drill bits, the step ladder, the container with all the items needed to properly mount anything, I’m about to have to drag them back ….
So moving, it sucks. None of this says a damned thing about lack of Internet (which if you don’t hear from me for a while, that’s why) power, television and …
Man, I hate moving.