Moving. Is. The. Worst.
I always have more junk than I think. Do I really need those five spatulas? I mean, it does allow me to make five cakes at once. I just don’t have the oven space.
I always think when I move I’ll have everything organized and sorted. Instead, it turns into panic. Underwear gets packed with the spoons and cookbooks with bleach.
I tell myself there’s no time. It’s all about survival.
It’s worse when you’re moving just a few blocks. You convince yourself that you don’t even need boxes and can carry stuff loose in your arms, saying it’s good practice for that upcoming race, which you haven’t been training for because you had to move.
It’s a vicious cycle.
|When moving, you may realize you’re a hoarder. (Liam Harrap/Revelstoke Review)|
In the move, I usually find the things I lost. Like my waterproof glue, which had fallen behind the dresser. Score!
However, the elation from the exciting find quickly wears off when I realize that the highlight of my day was finding glue. I think it’s safe to assume that my life isn’t exciting. But at least I can now stick it back together.
There’s also the realization that you aren’t as clean as you think.
Ever look behind the stove? Or in the cracks of the fridge? Dear goodness. The horror.
Items you had been hoarding, you feel pressured to throw away. Like those six jars of pickle juice you had been saving to marinate wings. You don’t want to be the guy that shows up to a new place with a box of fermenting sluice.
The items of your life tell a story. What you’re into, collect and missing. Sometimes, a move can cause a revelation. After 30 years of life, this is what I have to show?
The items you’ve held onto sometimes are unexpected. That expired library card, an old doctors prescription, a pair of socks full of holes but in a colour you love so you cling to them even though they’re unwearable.
In the end, they’re just stuff. Items to decorate a room and justify having to pay rent.
When I lived from a backpack, stuff had another meaning. If you valued it, you had to carry it. Day after day. Mile after mile. If it didn’t keep you warm and you couldn’t eat it, it got chucked.
The spatulas certainly wouldn’t have made it. Let alone the pickle jars.
We fill our lives with boxes. Working from one day to the next, hoping to buy another. Sometimes disregarding one for a newer flashier model.
It makes one wonder, where does it end?