I’m moving again. I have lived in
this apartment for two years and twenty-five days. I’m not ready to go. I
thought everything would be fine and dandy; I’m moving closer to school and
will save $170 every month. That’s a lot. Unfortunately, it is so much cheaper
because I am moving out of a large, two bedroom apartment and moving into a
shoebox. Baby shoes.
Packing is bringing up bad memories.
Last time I packed, it was to move out of Ex’s house. The act of sorting
through our things into “mine” and “his” piles was so hard I thought it would
kill me. It is also when I started drinking. A lot. (See “A is for Alcohol” if
you want the gory details.) So, packing is bringing up urges to drink. My
psychiatrist told me I need to go to AA but I don’t want to. Not at all – so I
have decided to just stop drinking.
Easier said than done. My junk is
not packing itself!
I am shocked by the large amount of
junk I have. There are some things I have had since childhood, like jacks and a
rubber ball, which I haven’t touched since I was twelve but have packed and moved
with me for years. It is a bit ridiculous. I am taking a boat load of junk to
the thrift store. Included in that junk is my wedding dress.
I can't believe I just called my wedding dress junk. It is a beautiful dress and I could
probably sell it for a few hundred dollars but I don’t think I could stand to
see someone wearing my dress. I would rather just go to sleep at night knowing that some
happy woman just hit the jackpot at the thrift store.
One girl’s junk is another girl’s
jackpot.
