They say that moving is one of life’s most stressful events. I have to argue this theory and say that it’s one of the most reflective. I would even go so far as to call it an occasion. Not the kind of occasion where you get to celebrate something that you only mildly care about (like your neighbour’s cousin’s son’s ex-wife’s wedding), but the kind of occasion that marks a deliberate time for packing all of your memories into boxes.
The following math formula is used by experts to calculate the size of your moving truck:
Your age (for an average of the memories you’ve collected) PLUS your level of sentimentality (for measuring your potential to hoard crap) EQUALS the size of the truck you need for your move.
Because I’ve had children for most of my adult life and this recent move was the first without toting children, it was especially reflective for me. After my furniture had been hauled away, I had the pensive pleasure of walking through the empty rooms of my soon-to-be former house to confront all of my neglected intentions.
The flowers that I had planned to plant in front of the kitchen window so that I had something pretty to look at while washing dishes …
The excessive air hockey game that I bought with visions of game nights with my teenagers …
The second living room that never got finished …
This was the house where my teenagers outgrew me, forever inaugurated as such in the mawkish corners of my mind.
Yet certain intentions, no matter how trivial or forgotten, will always follow you. Like the bag of fancy underwear I found while unpacking in the new (old) house over the weekend.
Before I continue, a bit of backstory …
Greg and I have been together for nearly 12 years. And on top of that we’ve known each other since we were teenagers – so clearly something put us on the right path to find each other (more than once), making us, as they say, “meant to be”.
Despite this, if you know me in real life you know that there have been times when I’ve mistrusted the destiny factor and would break up with him. And every time I did that I would go out and buy myself something new, usually a hat or a pair of boots.
On one of these self-indulgent shopping-sprees I must have decided that what I really needed was to buy some fancy new underwear at a store that delicately packs your purchase in expensive-looking bags with pretty, pink ribbons as handles. Not because I planned for anyone to ever see said fancy underwear but because I thought that wearing uncomfortable under garments would give me something to focus on; something OTHER than missing Greg. Anyone that has an appreciation for cotton will agree: who can possibly think of anything else when you’re going through the day wearing frilly, undergarments that always seem to look like they belong on Barbie?
But I guess Greg and I got back together soon after I bought said fancy butt floss because they still had the price tags on them.
Love is never having to wear fancy, uncomfortable underwear. It’s a Universal Law. Possibly even more universal than gravity.