I am embarrassed to admit that I am suffering from a severe case of Moving Paralysis.
It's rather humiliating since I've moved a whole bunch of times in the past 30 years. I've had lots of experience managing household moves and consider myself somewhat skilled at it.
Over the past three decades, I've thrown black plastic garbage bags filled with my earthly possessions into the back of a pickup truck for a drive halfway across the country. I've endured the onslaught of professional packers piling stuff into boxes willy-nilly*. I've watched movers throw my goods into a BFT (Big F'n Truck, of course) and drive away to another time zone, leaving me to wonder if I'd ever see them again. I've imposed on friends, family, their good natures, and their vehicles to haul my crap across town.**
I've done it and survived it and even managed to get most of it unpacked before the next move. Which is no mean feat, considering that I can only make so many decisions per 24-hour period*** before my brain seizes up and I'm left pale and slack-jawed, turning in slow circles in the middle of the room.
But for some reason, this time I am flailing around like a moving rookie.
I've bought the house. I'm finally old enough and smart enough to hire movers even though it's "only a local move". I've transferred every known service and utility, and updated every conceivable account.
But the movers are coming in less than 48 hours and it is time for me to stand tall and declare that I. Am. Not. Ready. Boxes are still unpacked. Dressers are not emptied. Toys, papers, and knick-knacks litter every visible horizontal surface. I do have a whole lot of boxes of books, though. I can pack a box of books like nobody's business.
The bright (?) side is that regardless of what I do or don't do, the furniture and boxes will be moved out of the apartment tomorrow. At this point, all I have control over is how much stuff is left over for Mr. Bicycle and me to deal with, car-full by miserable car-full.
Tuesday will be a Very Late Night, Wednesday will be a Death March, and then I'll have the rest of the T-Day weekend to pick up the pieces.
Needless to say, you probably won't hear much from me until after the dust settles.
*My favorite was the time the packers opened up a box of baby clothes that I had packed and topped off the box with Hubby's tools from the garage. Thanks,
guys. I was thrilled to discover that the oily, grimy tools were adequately padded.
**That's how you know you're pushing mid-life. The prospect of moving your friend's sofa bed down two flights of stairs loses its allure. Even the promise of a case of beer isn't enough lipstick for that pig.
***Can't tell you what that number is, but it seems to be generated via some ill-defined formula involving blood sugar, caffeine levels, available mental energy, and exhaustion.