You guys! This packing business? It’s for the birds. The well-organized, capable-of-heavy-lifting, not-sentimentally-attached-to-my-stuff birds, that is. My lofty dreams of purging piles of unwanted possessions are slowly dribbling away like wax from Icarus’ wings after a solar flare.
And it’s not because I don’t have stuff I could get rid of…no, it’s because I’m pretty lazy, it turns out. You see, I don’t want to pack. I just want all my stuff to magically, mystically, somehow end up in my new place. And for the stuff I don’t need to fall off the truck along the way. In an ethical and environmentally responsible way, of course. I didn’t say it was realistic. Oh no! And my husband assures me it’s simply not going to happen. And so, left with the dying embers of a flight of fancy, I consign myself to stuffing my worldly belongings into cardboard conveyances.
The books were easy. We had help, and let’s face it, books are square. They stack nicely, neatly, into orderly towers. The only real danger with books is an oversized box, which runs the very real risk of becoming too hefty to budge. But this is easily solved by packing in liquor boxes. And so the books were done.
Knick knacks (of which there were far more than I recollect owning, by the by, went pretty compliantly into nests of New York Times stories and thence into rubbermaid totes (thanks to friends and neighbors who lent/gave up a small army of the totes!).
And now I’m left with the unfortunate task of the rest of it. The kitchen I expect will go pretty fast…more rubbermaid totes to protect the prized porcelain, and the gadgetry (of which I think there is precious little, but we shall see) will take up gobs of space but travel well. We shall be resigned to eating off paper plates and plastic forks for a bit, but I think we’ll come through alright.
Then the clothes. Ah, the clothes. Here is where some purging really ought to happen. But I’ve left it for last (because, you know, I’m still wearing several pieces on a bit of rotation) and need to do laundry before I pack. The solution I’m pursuing here is to pack a suitcase of things to not pack (yes, I know I just said I was packing them) and then pack the things not in the suitcase into boxes. Essentially living out of a suitcase in my own home.
The appearance of luggage of any sort will, of course, stress out His Royal Highness the Cat, but not nearly as much as his upcoming visit to the Vet, which will include getting up to date on his shots. A pre-move necessity in case there’s anything lurking in the new space that might cause problems we could have prevented.
It’s not that much left to pack, really. But it seems daunting with the piles of boxes everywhere and the ever-increasing spaces-where-things-were. I’m sure I’d much rather be baking or reading or laying about on the couch, but eventually we’ll have to leave our little apartment, and our things won’t be coming with us under their own steam. I suppose.
We sign the papers Friday next, so until then, au revoir. When next we meet, I shall be a newly minted homeowner!