As a student at GW, I fell in love with D.C. So much so that I didn't even go home for summers. This city was an education all unto itself for this shy girl from a country town. I still remember watching the pilot episode of The West Wing halfway through my years at GW, then calling home to tell my parents to be sure to watch it on Pacific Standard Time, later that evening. "That show explains everything about why I love this city so much!" I excitedly told them.
I worked as a residence hall advisor for my first three summers in D.C. This meant, however, that I moved a lot. A LOT. Sometimes, they would need me out of my academic year room before my summer RA room was ready, so I'd move to a temporary room across campus. And then two weeks later, I'd move to my RA room. And then, at the end of the summer, the RA room was needed for the real RA's to start, ahead of the students. But that meant my next academic year room wasn't ready for me yet. So I'd move to a temporary room. And, two weeks later, I'd move to my residence hall for the next school year.
I didn't have enough stuff to justify a moving van or anything. After all, I had no real furniture to move. But in essentially making myself a resident of D.C., rather than just a student, I began to accumulate things. Lots of things. (Y'all know I had lots of clothes and shoes, of course.) So it wasn't as simple as loading up my suitcases and a laundry basket full of linens and moving across campus. I distinctly remember the horror of rolling a maintenance cart ... back and forth ... back and forth ... across campus, piled with my things. It took me all of a full day, one of those summers. One year, I got caught in a summer thunderstorm while moving stuff across campus. It was always a nightmare.
And ever since then, I've hated moving, more than the average person. I've moved a lot, in terrible circumstances. I. Hate. It.
When my family came out to celebrate my graduation from GW, I was moving to a townhouse in Clarendon. We rented a U-Haul van and made a chain of aunts, uncles, siblings, parents and grandparents to move everything out of my last dorm room and into that van. I remember coming down with my next armload of stuff, hearing my dad's angry voice at the back of the van. "This is a lot of fucking shit!" And my mom, gently arguing with him, "It's not that bad! This is her whole life, just in this truck."
I always think of that, every time I move. Yes, that's my whole life I'm packing into (progressively bigger and bigger) moving trucks. And good lord, yes Dad, you're right. It's a lot of fucking shit.
So I'm moving again. My management company is raising my rent by $110 a month. I am pissed just on principle, because they aren't getting even close to that for current apartments they're renting. But whatever, I'm moving. I was considering it anyway, feeling the itch for something new and wondering how many more years on that same carpet I could endure before it would feel too worn to me. I knew that I wouldn't move if they didn't raise my rent by too much though. So maybe this was the kick in the pants I needed. To get a fresh start. The Dude moved me into that apartment, after all.
But when I finally realized I had to move, that it would not be as much a matter of choice as it had been in the abstract ... I walked around looking at all that shit I have. And my chest started to tighten up a little, wondering how I'd make it through that move. Knowing that, for the first time in my life, I'd be doing it without the built-in assistance of a man who doesn't have a choice but to help.
I cried that day. I don't know what it was about that realization, but it made me feel so old and so alone. Moving again, at 33, just me and the cat.
I'm stressed now, but fine. Change is good. I'll find a new place eventually. And I am determined to spend the next few weeks weeding through my belongings and donating to Goodwill with abandon. I want to be one of those people with only the things she really, truly needs. I'll finally get rid of those shoes hanging on the organizer on the back of my door, the ones I literally have not looked at in the two years since I moved into this apartment. (No, I'm not exaggerating.)
It will still be my entire life, packed into a moving truck in a month and a half. But this time, there will be less shit. I'll take pictures to prove it, Dad.
I worked as a residence hall advisor for my first three summers in D.C. This meant, however, that I moved a lot. A LOT. Sometimes, they would need me out of my academic year room before my summer RA room was ready, so I'd move to a temporary room across campus. And then two weeks later, I'd move to my RA room. And then, at the end of the summer, the RA room was needed for the real RA's to start, ahead of the students. But that meant my next academic year room wasn't ready for me yet. So I'd move to a temporary room. And, two weeks later, I'd move to my residence hall for the next school year.
I didn't have enough stuff to justify a moving van or anything. After all, I had no real furniture to move. But in essentially making myself a resident of D.C., rather than just a student, I began to accumulate things. Lots of things. (Y'all know I had lots of clothes and shoes, of course.) So it wasn't as simple as loading up my suitcases and a laundry basket full of linens and moving across campus. I distinctly remember the horror of rolling a maintenance cart ... back and forth ... back and forth ... across campus, piled with my things. It took me all of a full day, one of those summers. One year, I got caught in a summer thunderstorm while moving stuff across campus. It was always a nightmare.
And ever since then, I've hated moving, more than the average person. I've moved a lot, in terrible circumstances. I. Hate. It.
When my family came out to celebrate my graduation from GW, I was moving to a townhouse in Clarendon. We rented a U-Haul van and made a chain of aunts, uncles, siblings, parents and grandparents to move everything out of my last dorm room and into that van. I remember coming down with my next armload of stuff, hearing my dad's angry voice at the back of the van. "This is a lot of fucking shit!" And my mom, gently arguing with him, "It's not that bad! This is her whole life, just in this truck."
I always think of that, every time I move. Yes, that's my whole life I'm packing into (progressively bigger and bigger) moving trucks. And good lord, yes Dad, you're right. It's a lot of fucking shit.
So I'm moving again. My management company is raising my rent by $110 a month. I am pissed just on principle, because they aren't getting even close to that for current apartments they're renting. But whatever, I'm moving. I was considering it anyway, feeling the itch for something new and wondering how many more years on that same carpet I could endure before it would feel too worn to me. I knew that I wouldn't move if they didn't raise my rent by too much though. So maybe this was the kick in the pants I needed. To get a fresh start. The Dude moved me into that apartment, after all.
But when I finally realized I had to move, that it would not be as much a matter of choice as it had been in the abstract ... I walked around looking at all that shit I have. And my chest started to tighten up a little, wondering how I'd make it through that move. Knowing that, for the first time in my life, I'd be doing it without the built-in assistance of a man who doesn't have a choice but to help.
I cried that day. I don't know what it was about that realization, but it made me feel so old and so alone. Moving again, at 33, just me and the cat.
I'm stressed now, but fine. Change is good. I'll find a new place eventually. And I am determined to spend the next few weeks weeding through my belongings and donating to Goodwill with abandon. I want to be one of those people with only the things she really, truly needs. I'll finally get rid of those shoes hanging on the organizer on the back of my door, the ones I literally have not looked at in the two years since I moved into this apartment. (No, I'm not exaggerating.)
It will still be my entire life, packed into a moving truck in a month and a half. But this time, there will be less shit. I'll take pictures to prove it, Dad.
this was a really heartfelt post. good luck with the move. sometimes a fresh start is all you need.
ReplyDeleteEvery time we've moved, I look at it as an excellent opportunity to purge the crap.And we've moved plenty so I feel you.
ReplyDeleteCould be totally wrong but I have a feeling, like me, you're looking for home. But even though you love DC, it's not home in your heart, not yet. It's hard to grow up in an amazing place and then move leaving your family behind to start a life of your own. It's going to take a special place for me to call anything but San Diego home, but I'll get there and so will you. (((hugs)))
Also if this is not the case for you, ignore me, am battling a major bout of homesickness.
This post made me want to give you a hug. I love how open and honest your blog is. Good luck with your move :) (At least it's fall, so you won't have do deal with our wretched DC heat.)
ReplyDeleteHaving just gone through this 10 days ago, I know exactly how you feel!! Good luck!
ReplyDeleteYou guys are the best! I was thinking, "do I really need to whine about moving?" and y'all made me feel better. Thank you!
ReplyDeleteI remember that first move you're talking about. I didn't understand it then because I'd never had to move. Now, I've moved at least 8 times in the last 8 years. Packing up all the stuff and the kids and the dogs and the stuff..THE STUFF...sucks and it's always hard to start over again. I feel your pain and hope that your new adventure is even better than the last.
ReplyDelete