“The things you own end up owning you.” That line from Fight Club is the truest dialogue in cinematic history. At least it feels that way when you are moving.
I don’t even like packing my bags for a vacation, so having to stow away all our earthly possessions and schlep them to a larger living quarters three blocks away is utter hell.
This aversion to moving makes me unsure if I would enjoy being reincarnated as a turtle or not. You would never have to pack anything, but still you would always be carrying something. I do know if zombies or aliens ever invaded I would be the first to say leave it all behind.
My Love Interest, to her credit, saw my distaste for this chore and suggested we hire movers, but the only thing I hate more than moving is spending money. So with each slipped disc in my back I remind myself of the money we were saving. With each step I climb I fixate on the belief that second story apartments are less likely to have cockroaches than the bug den which we left behind. With each box of dishes I carry, I remember the dishwasher we now have. With the clothes I can think of the washer/drier. The beach is one block closer and the neighbors seem less likely to have vicious domestic disputes. With our two room apartment I can now cheer and boo late night basketball games without worrying of waking my Love Interest.
It will all be worth it, but I think when we move again I will suggest starting over. My clothes are so 2005 anyway.