Keepin' it real

Before you start thinking that my life is full of prancing unicorns, double rainbows and fluffy chocolate covered macaroons at every turn...


behold...


my dirty, little secret.



In the last few days, I have learned that somewhere in the span of the last three years, while living in a spacious home that is loaded with closet space and a two-car garage, I decided to become a hoarder pack rat of treasures and trash. Not my finest moment. Apparently, I have turned into one of those persons. You know. The one that believes in "out of sight, out of mind", i.e. stuff it in a closet and forget about it. The one that saves my school work from second grade, stashes extra BBQ's and gas cans, and hides loads of glassware and old jeans, "just in case" or "for a rainy day". Good theory for pennies, not so much for stuff.


THIS is what we now have just fourteen days to pack, organize, sort, and determine the answer to that pesky little question that constantly rattles around in my brain...."can't live without it, or, donate it?"



That's right....we are moving.



We are beyond excited to be moving to a quaint little neighborhood with a big back yard, friends for neighbors and... wait for it.....hardwood floors! But you see, I am nervous. Very nervous.



I always start a move ambitiously, thinking about life's big changes and the excitement that fresh paint and empty rooms bring. As I begin packing, I try to dress the part and trick my mind into thinking we (meaning my brain and I) are having fun by wearing Keds and a red handkerchief in my hair, dreaming of the day that overalls will be fashionable again while picturing us eating Chinese take-out on our new floor among piles of boxes. But this rosy outlook never lasts long. You see, I have been scarred.



My last move was from a itty bitty 600 square foot apartment and didn't even require a moving truck. But in the midst of packing, I had a complete meltdown and didn't subside until my dear (and far less dramatic) sisters drove to the rescue after recognizing from the sound of my voice the psychological crisis fragile state I was in. They walked through the door and looked around the place with eyebrows raised. After they got over the horror and made fun of me for about five minutes, they rolled up their sleeves and just began kindly giving me orders direction. When I say that I could not have done it without them, I am not kidding. So they saved the day, and I was left scarred. Swearing that I would never move again.



And yet, here we are.



Last night, we headed out to tackle the garage. I stood in the doorway for a moment with that same frozen look on my face, the one that my sisters witnessed three years ago. I thought about how I can not let "stuff" cloud my landscape, and I began filling the garbage can and garage sale pile. Soon, Ryan followed suit. It was a frenzy of paper, old socks, dust and clutter. We packed, we organized and when we were done, we laughed because it looked like nothing had changed. Ryan assured me that we will survive this move, and all the others to follow, marriage and sanity intact. I believe him and we toasted to "hope and optimism" with a big glass of wine and lots of guacamole.


So despite my seeping pessimism and nervous twitch, I am hopeful that I have matured in these last three years, that I gained some insight and that my excitement for hardwood floors will ease the burden that weighs on me. After all, moving is exciting, right?



And did I mention how much I love hard wood floors?