Not all ‘bad’ words are four-letter words. There’s a six letter word that starts with ‘m’ and sends shivers down my spine. And I’m not talking about murder or mayhem. Moving. Most of us have been there at least once. The sorting, the purging, the packing, the digging back into the ‘give-away’ boxes to reclaim those things to which we give second thoughts and cannot live without. Moving is rarely an enjoyable process.
I moved last week. Not across town or out of state. Just across the yard from one apartment building to the next one. Of course, when I told people this, they all said, “Oh, that won’t be so bad.” Really? Um…I still have to pack everything for the movers. The only upside to moving is that it affords us an opportunity to discover all the stuff we brought along with us in the last move and that we haven’t seen since until we open the boxes now to find out what treasures are buried there. That’s when the little voice in my head kicked in—“What are you saving that for?” Obviously so I can pay two strong men to move it to another apartment for me.
I lost 100 square feet in this move which, while it may not seem like a lot, dictated downsizing all that ‘stuff’. The first casualty—the Gazelle exerciser that has taunted me for the past three years. (I probably should have kept that and sent the refrigerator packing.) The new apartment is basically the same layout as the former apartment, with one exception—the laundry room and the bathroom are switched. This is where Binky, the cat, comes in. Her litterbox has been kept in the laundry room. And it still is. But (to her mind) I had the audacity to move the laundry room. She now has to adapt. But it doesn’t stop there. With a smaller bedroom, I have to move my computer table into the living room. Which means I have to relocate Binky’s bed to the other side of the room.
Well now I’m in deep doodoo. One change too many and I’m getting the stare of death. This is after she repeatedly goes to the spot where her bed had been situated, sniffs the carpet, then gives me a pitiful ‘someone stole my bed’ look. And I am overwhelmed with guilt. I’ve uprooted her and then totally rearranged her physical space. I’m a baaaaaad cat mommy. Maybe I can squeeze the computer table into the bedroom after all. I’ll just have to sacrifice a couple of feet and deal with my own claustrophobia in the overly-furnished smaller room.
Thank God for the voice of reason. That same voice that questioned my boxes of ‘treasures’ now reminds me, “She’s a CAT. She’ll adjust. You pay the rent. Arrange the space for yourself.”
Yeah, well, she’s not shooting daggers at that little voice. I’m moving her bed back and ending the standoff. Otherwise, every time I sit down at that table to write, I’ll feel her eyes boring holes into the back of my head. Then my ideas will leak out and I’ll get writer’s block and I'll never write again. Yeah, better to just move the bed.
Author of Love, Sam - 2012 EPIC eBook Award Winner - Mainstream Category