I recently moved in with my boyfriend into a beautiful apartment right near work. The place is perfect — there’s a yard for the dog, it’s in walking distance of school, and there are these beautiful windows so I once again am waking up to natural light. I’m also actually incredibly not stressed out about taking this “big step;” things between us have been easy and I’ve felt pretty excited to share my space with my partner.
SO WHY DID I LOSE MY EVER-LOVING MIND WHEN IT CAME TIME TO MOVE?
First of all, I ALWAYS seem to go into a bit of a tailspin when it’s time to move. But usually I’m moving because I have to and not because I want to, and I often have at least some misgivings about where or with whom I’m about to live. I was hoping, at least, that because I felt differently about this move, I would behave differently.
Alas...
On my final trip to the old apartment to get my stuff, I broke down. I didn’t realize how much stuff was left, how filthy the apartment was, how little time I had, etc. I called my boyfriend, in tears and overwhelmed. He came to help me and offered to go grab some more trash bags and stuff I needed at the store.
That might seem sweet and like it would calm me down, but it only made problems worse... He tried driving my car and couldn’t even get it up on the highway. My used, stick-shift Juke wouldn’t even get up to speed on the freeway entrance. On the way back, it struggled even in second gear.
As soon as he told me, my tailspin began in earnest. An unproductive panic ensued — in part over my car’s busted transmission, and in part over the moving I still had to do — and for hours, my thoughts ran in circles as I cried and stressed and I struggled to get the last of my shit out of my dirty apartment, and my boyfriend tried not to freak out about my freak-out.
I tried to explain to him why I was crying: Moving just forces you to look at yourself so closely.
I’m rummaging in this pile of shit wondering how my broke-ass justified spending so much money on so much utter crap that I’m now tossing into the trashcan. I can see the dollar signs as I throw things away: an $8 still-empty picture frame, a $15 plastic serving bowl I used one time, a $60 table I bought a month before I moved and isn’t going to fit anywhere in my new place. All this, as I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to afford a new transmission.
My boyfriend tries to calm me down, telling me that at least I know what’s wrong with the car and I can fix it and then it’ll be in good shape… But I interrupt quickly. When I moved back to New Orleans, my car broke down then too and I had to pay for a $4,000 repair. But then less than a year later, I totaled it. And then I got another car, but then about two years later, I ran over a pothole and that baby was totaled, too. And now I’ve got this car, and it’s busted, and I’ll dump a bunch of money into it, and then I’ll probably end up totaling this one too. And he again tries to calm me down: “Aren’t you a safer driver now?” I DON’T KNOW. NOT REALLY.
<< more tears >>
Moving just forces you to look at yourself so closely.
The waste, the mess, the filth, the poor budgeting, the pack-ratting, all of it.
And now I’m moved and it all worked out (turned out not to be the transmission, just a relatively inexpensive air leak), and I vow not to total this car, and I got rid of most of my junk, and I’m already making good cleaning habits and putting myself on an Amazon Prime allowance, but DAMN, I hate moving.
I prefer to just have all my stuff already laid out, and not have to look at it too closely.
