Yeah, I know. This isn’t an Earth-shattering revelation or anything. I don’t know anyone who has ever said “I LOVE moving! Weee!” But still. It’s really not a fun time. It’s not even a “meh” time. It really blows.
I’m moving out of my apartment this week and it feels like I will never be finished packing shit up. It probably doesn’t help that I’ve been packing while I consume all episodes of Orange is the New Black like an addict, but still. I keep finding another corner or cabinet with stuff in it. “Shit, I was using this cabinet above the stove? What’s even in here? Oh a bundt pan. Yes. Yes I may want to make a bundt someday. I’d better pack this.”
I have eight million boxes it feels like. My apartment has turned into some kind of really complex maze. And six million of those boxes are all labeled kitchen. I don’t know how that happened. My kitchen isn’t that big. This makes me fearful of the amount of stuff I could fit into a normal sized kitchen. The amount of stuff I could store and never use (bundt pans, so many bundt pans!).
And really, the best, most fun part of this move hasn’t even happened yet. The part where I get to somehow fit all of my accumulated Thing I Absolutely Need into my childhood bedroom. Should be exciting!
Wish me luck, would you?