Sunday, May 13, 2012

The Terrors and Joys of Moving

I'm moving in less than a week. I don't take change well. It could be great, awesome change, but I'd still be all nerves and worries and little fits of heart palpitations. In fact I've actually been counting down to this day for almost two years. And now I'm dreading it, dreading it like a visit to my cousin's house on Thanksgiving to see the 99% of my family who are basically complete strangers to me. I knew it was going to happen. I knew without a doubt that I'd be freaking out at this point, but that doesn't make it any easier.

Take last night, for instance. I spent all day getting things together and starting the awful process of packing. I won't even get into how much moving sucks, because you know it does. If you're reading this, you're nodding and thanking Jesus that you aren't moving yourself. Unless you are, in which case, my heart goes out to you.

Anyway, I haven't slept well in days. Last night I just laid in my bed and cried for no good reason. I'm expecting this to be a trend for the entire week. Perhaps even into my first days or even weeks at the new place. I've been wanting to live by myself practically since I had any sort of inkling about moving out back in high school. I'm sick of fighting over what stuff belongs to who. Over who should be scrubbing their toothpaste remnants off the bathroom sink. I've had roommates, and I'll never live with a girl ever again. Women are really horrible things. I lived with a boyfriend too, and let me tell you, trying to decide what shit is yours when you're moving out is absolute hell. The next person I live with will be, god forbid, the wandering soul out there who decides they'd like to marry me. Until then it's just me and my cat and my gadgets, thank you very much.

Every single item in my new place is going to belong to me. The toilet scrubber, the awesome original art prints, the Iron Man blu-ray, the 50 inch plasma TV. All mine. And nobody will be there to give me disapproving looks when I just want to sit on my ass and watch hockey or something instead of fold my clothes. I can make as much noise as I please when I stumble in at 2 AM, and nobody will be there to ask "Where have you been? Where are your shoes? Weren't you wearing a bra when you left?"

That's where my worries start, though. There's this thing with anxiety. I worry about everything. I've made my peace with that fact because it's never going to change. I'm already thinking ahead months when I potentially realize how completely and utterly alone I am in this place with my cat as my only company. Then I'll probably get another cat, because that's what lonely people do or something. And there's a negative correlation between how many cats one owns and one's chances of obtaining and keeping a boyfriend. But I'll worry about that when I actually start to worry about it. At this point I'm just excited to be able to leave the door open when I go to the bathroom, and I don't expect the novelty of that to wear off for a really long time.