Moving sucks, y’all. And I had forgotten just how much until
I got a taste of it a few weekends ago. You see, part of the criteria for
moving to England was selling our house (and, unfortunately, we could not time
the sell with our PCS). This brought out a lot of mixed feelings. On the
surface, we were ready to move out of our house. We were ready for a change.
But when it came down to it, we just plain hated it and not just because moving
sucks.
Even though our house wasn’t bright, shiny, and new anymore,
and maybe our family had outgrown it a little, it was still home and it was
ours. It was the place we felt most comfortable. The place we felt safe.
But move we must, and move we did. Into a tiny,
no-room-whatsoever-for-storage townhouse about fifteen miles further from town
than we already were in our suburban house.
And it was the most unorganized, last-minute move I have ever
experienced. We knew we were moving soon. But the date of closing (on the house
with the buyer) was up in the air and kept changing for at least two weeks.
When we finally got a date, it was sooner than expected. So with very short
notice and very little help, and the last moving truck available anywhere near
us, we picked up our lives and memories and big, bulky furniture and hauled it to
the only apartment complex in a 30-mile radius that would rent to us on a
short-term lease.
So, needless to say, this has kept me away for a while. For
the first week, our townhouse was in a state of disarray that was just plain unlivable.
It is starting to find some order now, except one room at the top of the stairs
that has been dubbed the “storage” room and it is approached slowly and with
the most apprehension. (You know, like the door in horror movies that you know
the bad guy is hiding behind. Yeah, that’s the door.)
Anyway, I have not forgotten my promise of a full English
breakfast. It’s coming…Check back soon!
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