Moving Stinks

Well, not moving, particularly. Actually, I love starting over in a brand new place. I suppose it's the optimistic and unrealistic side of me that says "if I can just start fresh, this time I'll do everything right." Setting up house is wonderful, and the feeling of not being trapped by what's already there is right up there with coming out of confession.

What really stinks is packing. especialy when you're a pack rat. Or rather, when other people in your house are pack rats. And if you're lazy on top of that, things can get pretty hot.

"Why don't we just throw all our stuff away? It's much easier than sorting and boxing."

"Why would you want to throw away this box of unmatched socks that have been unmatched for our last three houses? They're perfectly good socks!"

And so on.

Now I need to turn this into a list. Things that make packing a spritually humbling experience:

1. Realizing how much junk you actually have

2. Realizing how junky the stuff is that you actually like

3. Trying to seperate your good stuff from bad stuff without being overwhelmed

4. Unearthing embarassing old letters to which you once had a sentimental attachment

5. Finding the true extent of the dirt and grime that has survived in your house in spite of your housekeeping efforts

Basically, packing reveals one's own materiality, one's insufficiency as a housekeeper, the worst of one's sentimentality, and an obstinate inability to let go. That's a lot to chew on, especially under the pressure cooker of getting everything done in time.

Of course, if your moving experience is anything like mine is currently, "on time" keeps getting further and further away. because banks are run by Satan. I thought about praying to the patron saint of banks, but then, since they are pure evil, I figure that there is probably only a Patron Saint of People Who Have the Misfortune to Have To Deal With Banks.