Preparing to move to a new apartment, going on vacation and going off to college are all experiences I've found have one common, dreaded thread: packing. Gathering possessions and boxing or bagging them away seems to be quite an emotional journey. It has phases not unlike those of human grief. Here are some thoughts I had while packing, which fit nicely into the five stages:
I definitely don’t need to pack yet. I still have another week! It will take me three days, tops. I don’t even have that much stuff. And I work best under pressure. It will be totally fine to wait longer. Besides, why pack so far in advance that I’ll just have to take items I use daily back out of the boxes? That makes no sense.
Why do I have so many socks? And shoes? And jewelry? And random knick-knacks? Who do I think I am, owning all of this? Why do I buy all this junk and make it impossible to pack? I can’t stand this. It feels like nothing is actually getting done. I’ll just throw it all in one big box and call it a day. That’s it, I’m not doing it at all. I’m throwing everything in the trash. Who gives a crap anyway? Not me.
Oh, packing fairies, won’t you please help me out here? If I promise to pack half my stuff, can you just do the rest for me when I’m sleeping? What about just a few boxes? One box? Okay, half a box. Come on, work with me here. I’m going to pass away if I pack anymore. This is serious.
It will never end. I will never be packed. Every time I turn around, there’s more. I think the sound of packing tape peeling away from the roll will haunt me in my dreams for the rest of my disorganized, unpacked life. I should just give up because it’s pointless.
OK, I can’t give up. I have to get this done. It will be fine. I’ll just put on some music. I’ll use a checklist. I’ll get a bowl of snacks. I’ll order pizza. This can’t last forever, and I can make it fun. Maybe I’ll invite a friend over. We can dance like idiots and struggle to tape boxes closed together, it’ll be so cute. I got this.