August 06, 2015

Was That You I Heard Asking How My Move Is Going?

This is what moving looks like.
For the past few days, I've been at the beach with my family in North Carolina. Sort of an unconventional moving step, I know.

You see, both my parents and Derrick were adamant that I didn't do the entire 18 hour drive from DC to Florida by myself. I knew I'd be fine but I was out numbered, one to fifty six angry mother bears worth of worry.

The solution would be that after all my stuff was packed up and with the movers, my sister and I would drive from Maryland to North Carolina to meet my parents at the beach until Derrick could fly up and meet me. Then, Derrick and I would drive the rest of the way together. And the time in between? It would be spent getting that nice, peely sunburn dermatologists warn you about.

So I lost the battle, but I guess I really won this war.

And that is how I ended up here, at the same beach I spent literally every summer for the first 18 years of my life, rolling around in SPF 30 during the day and toasting glasses of wine with my parents at night. Of course, the days are peppered with a few hours doing work with dial-up pace internet (just to get my blood pressure back up a little), thinking about blogging until the work completely kills any desire to spend another second with 1995-style internet, and a few morning runs. But other than that? Pretty much nothing.

Moving has never been so enjoyable.

Granted, I did do the required four steps of moving before I got here. (Plus a bonus fifth step of diffusing tension between my moving guys and another annoyingly combative moving crew, both of whom had couches to carry and both unsure how this could possibly be accomplished with only one freight elevator between them.) However, this feels like a small price to pay for having a couple days of calm in the storm, before I'm faced with the overwhelming task of driving 1,000 or so miles fueled by gas station peanuts, and later trying to find my can opener amidst twenty-three unpacked boxes.

But the best part? After those 1,000 miles of dirty gas station bathrooms, when I'm wondering why there are pillowcases in the box labeled "kitchen," I'll be doing it next to the most lovely man I know, the one I get to spend the rest of my life with.

And that's something not even my pleasantly peeling shoulders can compare to.