This morning I shot up in bed, like that scene in “Home Alone” when the mother realizes she went on vacation without her son and bolts up and screams “Kevin!” Only I sat up and screamed “[redacted]!”
Whoops – kind of forgot I had a blog. I wish I could say it’s because I’ve been lounging on the beach and stuffing my face with Cuban sandwiches, but that’s hardly the case. (It turns out you can’t fit a whole Cuban sandwich in your mouth. Go figure.)
It also turns out that moving 1,300 miles isn’t as easy as I thought. I’d seen people in the movies do it all the time, where suddenly they’re in a big new house and everything is all set up and the husband is dressed in a v-neck sweater and casual slacks and reaching into the last open cardboard box, pulling out a pristinely paper-wrapped vase, placing it on a dusted console table, and then the wife comes out from the kitchen with freshly cut tulips from the garden and places them in the vase. Then they pour a glass of wine from an already opened bottle and sit down on the couch with an exhausted gesture making some sort of lightly-humored proclamation like, “Well that wasn’t easy!” (I watch weird movies.)
Well let me tell you how that scene really goes:
So many boxes you can’t even imagine. Lining the walls. There is a walkway from the front door to the bathroom: Your options are pee or leave. Furniture can’t be used – it is only in the way, preventing you from doing the one thing you want to do most, which is sleep. But there are no sheets on the bed; the sheets are packed in a box that is underneath three boxes of books, and hygiene just doesn’t seem that important. You’re dressed in a variation of the same two outfits you’ve been wearing for the past three days. It stinks, but so does your situation, you reason. That console table? It doesn’t exist. You have two coffee tables and three night stands, but no fucking console table. You never even knew what a console table was until you needed one, and now your life seems less full, less happy, less hopeful because you have no place to put your keys, which are constantly lost, paring your options down to one: the bathroom. The last box is really the tenth, but it may as well be the first, because no conceivable progress is being made. Progress is a word for politicians and historians, and neither of them care that this tenth box is covered in some sort of liquid that spilled in a moving truck somewhere around
Luckily, that’s only the prologue. Flash forward two weeks and the tide of mess has subsided. My face is sun-kissed from a day at the beach and I’m sitting at my new West Elm desk working. Doing a job, from my apartment, with Puppy in a bed at the foot of my desk. Basically, we’ve managed to go from this:
Meaning: The fun begins shortly.