I am surrounded by bags and boxes overflowing with my things. Bags of trash lie heaped in the corner. The dog and cat give me leery looks from stacks of books so that they look like revelers at Stonehenge. Nobody is happy. Burke is in the office listening to a Joe Rogan podcast. I hear a groan.
One never knows how much stuff they have until they have to move it to another location. In my brain, my flat is more or less four rooms that don’t have that much stuff in them. My brain is a moron. I always overlook the bathroom. And the closet space. And under the bed. And in the drawers. Then, when my brain starts understanding the level of hell it’s about to get into, I am reminded of my storage space in the basement. I groan.
For something that isn’t altogether a bad thing, moving is unbelievably unpleasant. In my case, I am moving to a flat that I have bought – by most barometers, a positive thing. Nevertheless, I am still in hell and hell is four rooms filled with boxes and bags and angry cats and dogs. Once I started pulling things out of drawers and closets and books off shelves, my flat stopped being my flat and started being a wasteland of random tidbits. It’s unrecognizable as the flat it once was, like if you took apart a car and laid it out on a blanket. But that’s only academic, unless one were to make the car’s owner bring it to another location in a van and then reassemble it.
Everyone I have told about moving has responded with the same tongue clicks and grimaces as though I’d told them I’m going to the hospital for ‘additional tests’. Sometimes I wish that was so. For moving involves not only doing something you don’t want to do, but doing that thing within a merciless deadline, and must be done to completion. My inner procrastinator and my inner half-ass nature will not be satisfied.
When I moved from my last place, there was a bunch of stuff that wasn’t mine. For I had lived there for thirteen years and had had four roommates. And we all know that the person simply moving out of a flat but leaving someone behind in that flat does not have the same task. Someone will remain, so they take every advantage to not move things. So when I left the last place I was moving things from four people. And I hated them. I have permanently earmarked hideous revenge for each of them and they should spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulder lest they suffer a head blow from a toaster they left in a Podolian flat in 2015, emotional or otherwise.
But this time it’s my fault. All the stuff here is mine and I can’t blame anyone else for it. Even though Burke borders on the hoarder, I am no better and any judgment from me will come back to haunt me seconds later. I am in hell.
And then it got worse. I woke up in the middle of the night last night from the heat. I was stuffy and uncomfortable and it looked like I’d woken up in the basement of a museum of middle-aged men. There was no place in the flat to go to feel comfortable. I was in the bowels of hell.
I know. I know. This is positive. But the only thing that gives me any pleasure right now is the knowledge that since I am buying this new flat, I technically will never have to leave it. I may never have to move again. In the midst of all this madness, an astounding thing happens: I smile. It’s all going to be OK.
But on my way down the steps, I glance outside on our balcony. Two bikes look back in. More stuff to move. I am back in hell.
