I mentioned recently that we are moving. Again. For what feels like the millionth time in the past 5 years or so. And I am not happy.
Don’t get me wrong. I am happy about the FACT of moving. That we will no longer be living in this apartment that I have come to dislike very much. I’m even OK about the physical act of moving — as in putting stuff in truck, taking truck to new apartment, unloading truck, starting life in new apartment. So what do I hate with a passion?
Right now, it may as well be a 4-letter word. Because it makes me want to say a bunch of them in succession.
Whenever we’re packing for a move, the old me who didn’t know diddle about green living (nor cared about it at all) comes roaring back to the surface. I want to ravage each room, tossing all our stuff into the trash and replacing it with things we don’t have to pack. The paper clutter alone (shown above) makes me want to gouge out my own eyes.
Over the past few years, my husband and I have been really good about changing our buying habits. We are careful about what we buy, try to buy only what we need (though we sometimes slip), and generally try not to bring things into the house that don’t have an intended purpose. Still, when it’s time to pack it all up, I look around and wonder how the H-E-double hockey sticks we wound up with SO. MUCH. STUFF. Aaaaargh!
Yes, that was a scream. And I actually did scream. And startle my daughter. But that’s how packing makes me feel. Like my head is going to explode. Because right now, THIS is what my dining room looks like:
So forgive me if I don’t sort everything into Give Away, Donate and Recycle piles. Forgive me if I throw away more things than I should. Forgive me if I’m not the green maven I try to be all the time. Just this once.