So I’m moving to a new place in two weeks. Yeah yeah we all say we’ll never move again every fucking time. Right.
The easy part was arranging for the piano movers to wrestle the behemoth of a grand piano. Money = Someone else doing the work. Naturally that part left me broke and prostrating myself to the good will of friends to help with the rest.
There are a lot of good things to move. Along with the usual assortment of utter crap that I have been dragging around the country for thirty years.
What’s the horror in this tale?
It’s the same as you’ve all been through: Sorting through the boxes, pictures, family correspondence, things that belonged to dad and of course the truly terrifying sock drawer.
The only time I have a matched pairs of socks is when I move.
At all other times socks disperse to the far corners of drawers, behind dressers, and of course flee from the house all together. The things are sentient I tell you.
It’s sad to move. You find pictures that you’d forgotten about, portraits that have not been hung on the walls, clothes that haven’t fit in 2 years (some that your fat ass hasn’t squeezed into for 10 years) and the well-known How The Fuck Did I Get So Many Pairs Of Shoes?
It’s reminiscing about the good times and laughter you’ve had in your current home, and the remorse and sadness for the bad times.
What I’m trying to say is that moving stirs up more than dust. It stirs up memories and emotions. Lost treasures. And those damned socks.