Not gonna do it. Or rather, wasn't.
But see, as time ticks by and I ignore Bloglandia for another day without glowingly posting about culinary creations out of my new kitchen or perfectly dressed windows or newly organized closets, I feel increasingly lame. I love this house, and I couldn't be happier that we're here. That I know. But getting here? Awful. I think we know who deserves the blame on this one.
I'm the brilliant girl who did the following:
- Thought the lead-up time to the move should be spent doing house renovations instead of packing
- Kept a long-planned OBX weekend on the calendar even though we didn't have time for it
- Told parents, in-laws, relatives, and friends that we didn't need help moving
- Thought hiring movers to do only the "big things" was a good idea
- Thought "the little things" that would remain were, in fact, little
- Believed we could do said "little things" with our relatively little vehicle
We worked our butts off in the house for ten days, painting and sanding and stripping and the like, and didn't pack a thing, meaning we were sore and tired before moving even began. The day the movers came, not a box had been packed. I was so unprepared I had them wait before disconnecting the Internet so that I could finish a work project. Once they got going, the movers only broke one piece of furniture, which we were actually pretty cheery about, given how horrific our last experience with movers was. We moved into the house that night with our furniture, and you know... the house seemed so great with just furniture in it, minus our pesky stuff. Have I mentioned we have a lot of stuff?
Friday we packed and moved all day long, fourteen hours straight. T rented a U-Haul intervention-style (thank God), and even with it we missed a concert and any chance at having a normal weekend. We were limping and bleeding. Really. By Saturday, we were existing solely on caffeine and willpower, and broke at different moments. My breakdown moment came in the closet (don't they always?), surrounded by clothes of three different sizes and facing a pair of pants that were giving me a particularly condescending look. That's when I announced that Saturday, April 23 was the worst day of my life. Take that, stupid pants I can't wear anymore. You win.
And then I felt guilty, and looked at the guy putting up with me through all of this, battling an explosion of my old graduate school papers, or shoveling dirt from my planters into plastic bins, or wrangling gift wrap, or some other ridiculousness of my own design.
"Okay, this isn't the worst day of my life because you are with me."
"But it's still a really shitty day."
"I mean really shitty."
We pulled away from our apartment for the last time at 1 in the morning. We had a plan that things would go in their rightful places as they came out of the thankgoodnesswehaditohmygodhewasrightU-Haul, rather than just anywhere. That plan had been thrown out long ago.
Contractor bags filled with clothes still on hangers... thrown. Suitcases of books so heavy they barely rolled... shoved. Random-ass shit that I don't know why in the world I still keep: basement. And so on.
By 3:00 a.m. Sunday, we were reduced to two lost souls on a dark streetcorner, covered in bruises and scrapes and whispering lifting and turning strategies, with an audience of stray neighborhood cats. It started to rain. But finally, we were done.
Three days later, to say that this house is "taking shape" would be vastly exaggerating the homemaking progress going on inside. Instead, this house is beginning to consider a process of thinking about taking shape. The truth is, we need some time to recover. Or at least one day to do nothing but sleep. Or a massage therapist to fix our broken bodies. Or a contractor to fix up everything we want fixed, simply by reading our minds. Those glowing blog posts about kitchens, windows, and closets... you're going to be waiting a while. So you know.
Moral of the story: don't try this at home, kids. Accept help. Know you're not Superwoman. Be okay with that. Pack up your too-small pants first, on a happy day. Or for pete's sake, finally throw them away, why don't you?
And that's all I have to say about that.
The only happy thing to ever come out of Moving Day... big love from me to the awesome person who identifies this brilliance: