Moving. It is not for the faint of heart. See, I thought I was a seasoned mover. Having deftly managed the transportation of my worldly possessions through dorm rooms, my first shared apartments, a sublet or two, and finally, into my own studio three years ago, I thought I had it down. I had traversed multiple NYC neighborhoods, schlepped boxes home without losing my balance or taking out anyone else’s, and packed my breakables as if they were breakables. I was a pro—or so I thought. Apparently, staying put for a few years creates quite a different moving experience—and, as it turns out, taught me a couple of things I didn’t quite know (admit?) about myself.
- Not as “Grown Up” as I Thought?
After all my previous moves, I was pretty sure I’d hit the grown up world. Living on my own, in my own apartment—what could be more grown up than that? But packing up my assorted array of pint glasses emblazoned with an array of brewery logos made me question if perhaps I should save the cost of moving that particular box and buy a new set of matching glassware.
- Late Night Packing Sessions are… Over
On the other hand, I could argue that I’m definitely grown up simply by the fact that the idea of cramming all that packing into the night before the movers arrived was pretty much the equivalent to walking through Times Square in during rush hour in December. My neck hurt, my back hurt… and suddenly, those mismatched wine glasses I contemplated tossing didn’t seem like such a bad thing after all.
- Too Much of My Paycheck Goes to Shoes
And Sephora. Because seriously, I can’t seem to finish packing away all the shoes, make up and hair products. No wonder I thought I needed a bigger apartment (in retrospect, there is a chance I just needed shoe storage). Also, packing shoes? Horrible. I’m pretty sure I’ve ruined scuffed or scratched half of them beyond recognition simply by trying to get them into bags and boxes. Also, I finally figured out what shoe bags are for. Too bad I seem to have thrown all of those out. And speaking of throwing out…
- There’s a Chance I Might be a Hoarder
I don’t think anyone is going to write a TV show about me (yet) but why do I have back issues of WIRED and all my previous iPhones crammed into drawers? Even if my iPhone 7 does break, I would only have to revert back to the 6—yet here I have the 4s staring right at me like it could be my back up any day. I even have two frayed power cords—just. in. case.
- I Can Justify Purchasing Moving Boxes
Apparently you can phase out of begging for wine boxes and packing crates at local stores. In fact, just the idea of having to cart boxes home (and store them in their various states of used box existence) makes me get anxiety. Plus I kind of like the idea of new, uniform, clean boxes to store all my new matching glassware.
- I Will Never Outgrow Moving Day Anxiety
Between the last-minute packing, trying to figure out which of the 7 different Benefit mascaras I want to keep, making sure my shoes don’t annihilate each other on the trip to the new place, and generally worrying about having my stuff damaged en route, my moving anxiety is worse now than during previous moves. I guess that’s what happens when you ditch your college futon and local pub pint glasses for a West Elm sofa and new stemware.