I have been packing solidly for two days now, although I did do a bit three nights ago as well. So far I have packed 23 boxes, with an estimated 9 more to go. This does not include the rest of the stuff the movers will be picking up: 3-seater couch and ottoman, armchair, dining table and 4 chairs, 2 bookcases, rug, coffee table, desk, dressing table, queen bed frame and mattress, ironing board, 2 drying racks, 2 mirrors, and 4 deck chairs. That does also not include the rather large suitcase I am taking on the plane, my camera gear, and my cat. That is all entirely too much stuff for one person.
During my overseas travels I managed to keep my entire life’s possessions down to two suitcases. That was it. Every time I moved I sold or gave everything away. Now I’m a little older, less hesitant to move countries “permanently” at the drop of a hat, and less willing to give up the couch I love sitting on so much, the rug I searched all over town for, the white china dinner sets, the white towelling sets. I have become the narrator from Fight Club and all I need is a massive gas explosion to set me free from my life of material ownership.
But sans explosion, I am stuck here in my house, wrapping things in newspaper, washing dishes, clearing cupboards, and cursing having all the things I wished I had when I went flatting again with not much more than a suitcase of clothes two years ago. I have one day to finish. With all this work left, I might as well give up and go back to watching True Hollywood Stories for a little bit longer.
