Few people have uttered those words. But it’s true; I love moving. Or at least, I love the idea of moving. I love throwing away things I don’t need, packing everything in categorical boxes and arranging them alphabetically in nice pile in my dining room. I love it so much that it’s 5 days until my move and I am completely packed.
I realize that this introduces some interesting problems in regards to living for the next 5 days. Where is my printer paper? Packed. Where are my knitting supplies? Packed. Where is my underwear? Where is my toothbrush? Where is my silverware? Well, you get the idea.
I love finding my new grocery store, and figuring out the best route to take to get here and there. I love drawing to-scale layouts of my new home, complete with to-scale couches, beds, and other furniture, so that I can arrange things properly before I even move in. I love buying new blenders and vacuums and decorative bottles of vegetables in vinegar.
Since I turned 18, I’ve never lived anywhere for more than 2 years. Some places, I’ll stay for three months, some for a year or a year and a half.
The thing is, this moving business, it seems to go against everything I know about myself. If I were to meet me, and I have, I would suppose that I am the sort of person who likes stability, who likes to know where, what, when, and how long.
The only thing I can guess is that I must have gypsy blood in me somehow. Or maybe I just haven’t found a place I really like yet. Once place seems to be as good as the next… but maybe that’s the problem. I wonder, do most people love where they are? How is it that someone can live in the same house for 15 years, on the same street, next to the same neighbors?
I suppose it would be different if I owned a house. If one or maybe two things in my life were more stable, maybe my living situation would be too.
Until then, a haiku:
At the time it seemed
That I needed all these books.
My back disagrees.