You guys will forgive me for phoning this one in, right? (As a side note, I do not know where my phone is). But yesterday’s post made me realize exactly how much moving to a new place really is like travel, and since it’s been ages since I last did a top ten post (or any post, for that matter) I figured it was high time for one.
Oh – and for those of you playing along at home, take comfort in the fact that last night Rand and I successfully built an enormous IKEA bookshelf together without killing one another (and also, we’ve returned to our habit of making out in alcoves and being mistaken for street people. Thank you, JEEBUS).
Where was I? Ah, yes: 10 reasons why moving is a lot like travel.
- Strangers see your underwear. While on the road, it may happen when vicious airplane turbulence sends you careening out of the lavatory with your skivvies around your knees (this, far more so than falling out of the sky, is my greatest fear when flying). Or when the hotel staff comes to clean up your room, and you find that in a fit of passion (a.k.a., laziness), you tossed a pair into the air and it landed on a wall sconce, where the staff mercifully left it. During a move, it may happen when a drawer comes flinging out of a dresser, spilling your unmentionables across the street like confetti at a Fourth of July parade. Whatever the case, I pray neither group judges me for my collection of granny panties (What? They’re comfortable).
- Living out of a suitcase is a way of life. This was Rand’s idea, and I must say – it’s a brilliant one. When we packed up the contents of our bedroom, we also packed up our suitcases, ensuring that we’d have enough clothes without having to tear through boxes in hopes of finding something suitable to wear (confession: I did this anyway, and still managed to look like I had gotten dressed while blindfolded).
- In the eleventh hour, you shove weird items into your bag in a panicked frenzy. During trips, I’ve defied the laws of space time – fitting snacks, extra clothes, an enormous camera, toiletries, first-aid kits, books, and the occasional laptop into my purse (A few times, I’ve seen Rand’s eyes widen at the sight. “HOW DID YOU ZIP IT UP?”). In the craze of moving, I’ve found that items for which I have no other home, but cannot be lost or left behind, end up in my bag. Its current contents? My wallet, a camera, my phone, some toiletries, a tape-measure, a bottle of water, and a pile of bills that will stop your heart.
- At some point, you wonder why, exactly, you packed the items you did. And why you even bothered to buy them in the first place.
- Loud, annoying noises disrupt your sleep. It may be the shouts of a drunken bachelorette party in the stairwell of your hotel, or the screams of a drunken bachelorette party on the street outside your new place. Either way, you will likely get used to it. And you will continue to loathe bachelorette parties.
- You wake up and forget where you are. Then you turn and see your husband, and you’ll still not know where you are, but you will care slightly less (unless you don’t see your husband. At which point, you may freak out just a weensy bit BECAUSE WHO THE HELL IS THAT GUY IN YOUR BED AND HOW MUCH DID YOU DRINK LAST NIGHT? Oh, nevermind. It’s totally him.)
- Eating at restaurants becomes the norm. You long for a home-cooked meal, but your kitchen is either thousands of miles away, or buried under a pile of boxes. Pizza sounds more and more reasonable.
- Stepping out on to the city streets, you realize you have no idea where you are. Not even the faintest clue. After getting hopelessly lost, you finally see something vaguely familiar, and you are so relieved, you are tempted to hug the next person you see. Do not do so. It is probably a hobo.
- You are surrounded by dirty laundry. There is nothing you can do about it. Don’t fight it. Just give into it. It will eventually consume you and you will meet a soft, musky end.
- Instead of the excitement you should feel, and the exploring you should be doing, you really just want to sit in your pajamas and watch T.V. There is no shame in this. Anyone who’s seen House in Italian knows this.