The First Step Is Admitting You Have A Problem

I’m going to write a book on how to shorten the moving process.  It will be titled Burn it Down, and will have exactly zero pages. 

I will be rich.

Of course, a literary bomb like this would require me to actually burn our beautiful house to the ground, a thing I haven’t done and honestly may not get around to, since 1) I'm not quite sure how C would react, and 2) I haven’t nailed down the extent of the physical incarceration consequences. 

Does this look like the face of a girl who would commit arson?  Don't answer that.

I don’t want to jinx it yet, so I’ll whisper the big news:

I think we’ve sold our house.

We’re under contract with a nice young family (I say “nice” because I can’t bear to think of them as anything but a set of perfect human beings - adequately clean, dreadfully hospitable and exceedingly hip), so C and I have begun the process of moving, also recognized in our marriage as dancing through the house with cardboard boxes in our arms, wearing bubble wrap tutus and waving curly streamers made of reinforced tape.  We’ve gotten so good at packing that we can spend our time doing jazz ensembles instead of any real work.  This isn’t true of course, but what is true is the fact that we are becoming proficient at squashing any emotional turmoil surrounding our decision to sell.  When people ask how “it” is going - you know, “tossing through the memories bound within the walls of your first home” - I have a reliable if not canned reply:

It’s like war. 

You can’t think about casualties. You can’t second-guess decisions.  And above all else, you can’t give in and start crying on the bedroom floor.  If you do, you’ll wind up huddled in a dark linen closet with Blue Christmas playing on repeat, or something worse - and what could be worse than that??

We’re working hard to avoid the other great challenge of moving, one I think we can all relate to on some level.  Over time, we humans have this unfortunate tendency to form emotional bonds with things.  When I was a kid, I would go ballistic if I had to throw away old socks.  Socks.  Or, I’d be so upset that mom wanted me to take on a new toothbrush that I would wrap the old one in tissues and slide it into a clear ziploc bag before placing it gently in the least repulsive corner of the bathroom trash, whispering some parting words as it settled in to it's Kleenex coffin.  In the same way, we adults like to hang on to things that serve little or no purpose to us, such as the knick-knacks we keep on our bookshelves or sometimes even the books themselves.  We find ways to justify hoarding old yogurt containers, half-used chapstick tubes, and empty cleaning product bottles.  We hold on to unnecessary ceramics and superfluous furniture pieces. 

Well friends, no longer are we are in bondage to our hoarding ways – we are sorting through our knick-knacks with an iron fist and selling our wares to the highest bidder.  Need a side table?  We can help.  Always wanted to own a non-reclining recliner? Call 1-800-WE-GOT-IT.  Framed pictures of our vacations and family holidays?  Creepy, but we’re open to it.  You see, it’s not worth placing all of our desperate hope and separation anxiety on the shoulders of inanimate objects that aren’t capable of offering any love or hope in return.  Why else would we have pets?

I apologize in advance if I’m untimely with my posting in the next few weeks, but just remember that a transition like this has plenty of potential for spousal blowups, misplaced financial records, damaged stemware, and the occasional box-flew-off-the-back-of-the-truck highway accidents.  The laughter that I hope you experience over my mishaps is the shining light that keeps me from veering off the tunnel tracks. 

Or striking a match.