I have been SO. Stressed. Out.
Seriously.
So let's go back to my healing ribs....shortly after I experienced the singular pain of breaking my ribs purely by my own doing, the Spazz gave five months' notice to his roommates to move out so that I can move in. Subsequently, the Spazz and I went on our annual Valentine's Day trip where he proposed to me during a particularly grueling hike while my coworker left us alone on a mountaintop and I panicked because the sun was setting and I had no idea how we would find our way home.
According to the Spazz, my exact response to his proposal was: "Are you kidding me?"
I'm pretty sure that he has misquoted me. I would place money on the fact that I likely responded: "Are you fucking kidding me?"
In any case, I said yes and the wedding planning ensued (different blog: stay tuned) and then it stopped and then I started packing and now I have one week left in my cute apartment with the pink kitchen and pink bathroom (and the POOL in the courtyard) before I move into a huge rent-controlled apartment that bears the signs of at least 20 years of neglect and is in one of the ugliest buildings I have ever laid eyes on.
And so....
I am stressed out.
When we first talked about moving, the Spazz insisted that we move ourselves. I pointed out that after people turn 40, they are no longer in good enough shape to move themselves. I spent my 20s and part of my 30s moving myself and other people. My theatre years were spent helping people move, helping people paint, and then drinking beer and eating pizza afterwards. It was romantic back then (not really) and an opportunity for team-building and camaraderie (which often bred resentment and resulted in scratched floors).
The dirty secret is this: I hated every minute of it. I hated moving. I hated moving my ex-boyfriend's 1500+ record collection up 30 steps in San Francisco. I hated painting the theatre technical director's apartment for a fucking slice of pizza, only to find out he and his wife moved out less than six months later. And I'm pretty sure my friends really hated moving my giant book collection and the 7 foot leather couch that, for the life of me, I cannot get anyone to take now that I no longer need it.
Here's the other problem: I no longer work with a bunch of theatre people who are used to moving things. I work with social workers, mostly small women, and doctors and nurses who actually HIRE people to move things for them. The only person who has a truck is the Spazz, and I almost ruined that when he helped me move into my soon-to-be former apartment nine years ago. So, having my friends move me is no longer an option.
At one point, my cousin offered to help me move. He was laying on my aforementioned couch, half-asleep with his toddler daughter crawling on top of him and said, in his usual haze: "Hey, my friend and I can help you move. He has a truck!" I thanked him for the offer and thought about it after he left. My cousin is a good guy, but his friends kind of freak me out and I really didn't think I could rely on this friend-with-the-truck. And if the friend craps out, we're stuck. His wife is pregnant and both of his daughters are under the age of 3. Not the best moving team.
During this time, I have been packing. I'm not sure if you were paying attention earlier, but I've lived in my apartment for NINE years. I was thinking about that recently and that is actually longer than I have lived in any one place my entire life (even in my childhood....I lived in our house in Philly for only 8 years). Now, some of you know that I am the offspring of a dyed-in-the-wool packrat. My mom keeps EVERYTHING. When my sister-in-law visits, she gingerly wades through various items in my brother's room and calls it "excavating." This apple has fallen away from the tree, but not far enough. I've got a lot of stuff and the only comforting thought is that I am moving into a bigger apartment. But that is no reason to keep everything and so there has been a bit of a purge going on.
First emotional obstacle: getting rid of things.
Second emotional obstacle: packing the still too many things I am keeping.
Third emotional obstacle: realizing that oh-my-god-I-am-getting-married-and-moving-in-with-my-fiance-and-losing-whatever-single-life-freedom-that-I-had (especially living alone the way I wanted to live and not having a roommate or a family member or a husband getting all up in my business).
That last one is kind of big.
And it just hit me this week.
And it's a doozie.
I'm leaving my cute apartment with the pink kitchen and the pink bathroom and the great light. I'm leaving my incredibly unbelievable (but true!) shortest-commute-ever (I've walked 3 blocks to work and back for the last nine years). I'm leaving the pool that I almost never used. I'm leaving this neighborhood that I've grown to love. I'm leaving some of my favorite restaurants and some of my closest friends. I'm leaving my 98 year old neighbor who is so hard-of-hearing that I know what she is watching on television (she watches the Jimmy Kimmel show every night) and can hear her phone ring while I am watching television.....with the volume turned up really high.
I was so not emotionally prepared for this.
So I have to say that the one thing that is helping to relieve the stress is this: I called Nice Jewish Boy Moving & Storage several weeks ago and made arrangements for someone professional (I hope) to move my stuff. The Spazz wasn't happy, but I made the executive decision with some unconscious knowledge that I would not be in the best mental state to handle this on my own nor to be nice to my loved ones who were willing to help.
And, if you are a Member of the Tribe like me, you'll understand that I was happy to receive a call back from Nice Jewish Boy Moving & Storage's manager, Tony Ortiz.
(By the way, this may be the end of this entry, but don't worry.....there's more to come. Stay tuned for Giant Dwarf vs. Painting.)
