I ate blueberries out of a wine glass last night and let a stranger rummage through our stuff while I pretended as if I was wearing a bra but I really wasn’t.
We are to the point of packing where you just become numb. The color-coded taping idea sounded awesome three days ago, but here we are: three days to move-in and our conversations have gone from, “red means strorage, purple means storage, but keep it up front, green means trailer,” to “we can just shove everything in storage and sort it later.”
It’s not the element of moving into a trailer that makes moving challenging. I live a pretty minimalistic lifestyle anyway, so it’s not the STUFF. It’s the fact that this was such an unexpected turn of events that neither of us had time to work it into our pretty busy schedules.
So the extra shifts we picked up at our jobs, the extra jobs we have, everything has to be molded around the: “Oh, and we’re moving.”
It’s part of this adventure.
But I won’t lie. I’m looking forward to sleeping eight hours a night again and not having 20-hour days. I’m just too old for that.
In the middle of everything, though, is an underlying current of electric excitement. It’s probably contributing to the “are we there yet?” little bit of whining that’s going on inside my head.
I just want to be there. In our trailer.
Three more days.
These guys will be happy, too.
Comments