I am packing to move in six months – or more. I’m crazy. I know.
I don’t even know where we’re going. I mean, I know which city. We plan to open our own business in a city closer to his young boys, from his previous marriage. But I don’t know what our address will be.
But I still can’t bear it. There is logic in packing now.
- At my current job, I can get many, many, excellent packing boxes for free.
- For the next six months, my husband will be picking me up after work every day, so I have a way to get these boxes home without annoying all the other commuters on a bus. After six months, my husband will be moving away to start a business in another city, where he will live with is parents temporarily. I may go with him immediately but, more likely, I will follow him in the subsequent months. That means that, if I wait to pack, I’ll be bringing those bloody boxes home on the bus.
- My husband goes out to that future city every second week, to bring his boys for their weekend visit. This is a 5 hour round-trip, meaning my husband drives 20-30 hours each month, barring summer holiday traffic, which adds an extra hour each way in the summer. (We’re definitely moving.) His parents live in the same city so he can start ferrying out our packed boxes to that new city over the next six months. I don’t need all my tchotchkes, extra linens, or to even put up a Christmas tree this year. Let’s move it on out.
But, logic aside, I am not invested in this beautiful little heavenly flat anymore. I am still so thankful for it, but I know a journey awaits and I want to embark. I stare at the end of the living room with it’s mound of packed throw cushions and sheet music and books and I say to my husband, “It’s like Christmas!!”