I’ve moved too many times in my adult life, which is funny, because as a kid, my parents moved exactly once, when I was three, to the house where my dad still lives.
There’s the packing, which I kind of like, actually, because it allows me to declutter, and when moving, I’m much more ruthless than usual, because I don’t want to go to the effort of moving things I’m not going to love. Plus, putting things in boxes creates order among chaos.
Then, there’s the actual moving itself. This time, I didn’t hesitate to hire movers. Because it was New Year’s Eve and we were pretty much out of friend credit because all of our friends helped ensure the wedding was a success just three months before, we simply decided to make a phone call.
Unpacking is somewhat satisfying because there’s a visual account of your progress. “Look at that pile of boxes,” you can say to yourself. “I did something valuable!”
The part that sucks? Readjusting after you’ve moved. Redefining normal, when there are tasks that inevitably pile up, making every night a “just one more project” night, which means you’re doing little else other than eating, sleeping, and settling in.
If it sounds like I’m complaining, I’m not. Because I’m done settling. I moved across town and already have new haunts: there’s a gym less than a block away (I can almost see it from my house) with no-excuses times that’ll help ensure I exercise daily. I already have a favorite coffee shop. And a least-favorite coffee shop (but if you have babies, that’s where we’ll go).
This weekend was full of “global warming is real” weather, so we took a walk around the neighborhood and had brunch. I got a chance to play with my new camera (an awesome Christmas present from Brent).
Here’s what a weekend walk in January looks like in my new neighborhood: