Tuesday, October 4, 2011

who moved my packing tape?

I know for many, certain sights or sounds or smells mean "home." Maybe it is the vista with a particular set of mountains, maybe it is rows of cotton or corn that stretch as far as the eye can see, maybe it is the delicious smells wafting from the oven that greet you as you cross the threshhold. This sight is "home" to me:

True sign of Army Brat. My earliest memory of packing my own stuff comes from the age of nine, a move my family made from Texas to Colorado (with very little notice). In an attempt to help my mom, I loaded every book I owned into the biggest box I could find. It made sense to me, fitting as much stuff into one box. My dad had to come in and gently correct me that books had to be spread out amongst many small boxes (sure, Dad, whatever you say). Turns out, he was correct. Like always.

The other task of that move I remember being assigned was picking out the essential stuff I would need for the next two weeks so everything could be packed up and loaded onto a truck. My Barbies, duh.

So now here I am, all-growed-up, moving all by myself. I am driving all my stuff to Louisiana a week from tomorrow. Noooooooo! I am not ready!!!! But I have no choice. I only have one day off between now and then so I am trying to spend my spare time packing my non-essential stuff, getting ready for that truck that will be ready for loading on Monday. I have learned that Barbies are not really essential items (and books should be spread throughout countless boxes in order to save your back). And procrastination does not actually stop the clock from ticking. This is happening. I am moving. I am starting a whole new life, a career, an adventure! I just sometimes wish time would slow down just a little so I could keep up.

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