Alamo = Pocket Raisins

I’ve been packing since May. My life is nothing but boxes and garbage bags at the moment, all to prepare for a photographer tasked with making our home look Desirable to Others. Shortly after that is the open house, during which strangers will walk through our mostly-empty (but still lived in) rooms and judge us harshly (but hopefully generously). We’ve been given strict, yeti-removing instructions to get ready for the two-day event, which will see the closets emptied and the final bits of clutter Dealt With once and for all. Approximately 90% of my belongings are currently in storage. It is freeing, but depressing.

I’ve already written at length about why I have so much stuff. After living without all my stuff for the last several weeks, I’m starting to see the appeal of the minimalist lifestyle. I know that Ed, for one, is loving it – he wishes we could be like this all the time. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’ve also been enjoying it a tiny bit: things are easier to locate when there are only 3 of them instead of 500. The house looks enormous and so on trend. It’s easier to clean, find the cats, and I don’t fall down quite so much. It’s all a win!

At the same time, it’s sad. I hate knowing that Ed loooves the house like this, because it’s currently devoid of any of my personality. None of the things that make me the force of nature I am are anywhere in the house – it’s all in boxes three miles away. There is a massive dearth of ridiculous in Sparta, and it’s sad. It’s sadder when Ed is so vocal about how great it is. I miss my stuff. Maybe not all of it – I hope that I’ll be able to set up my new safe spaces with a little more flailing room, for tantrum dancing – but all those tiny, useless, ridiculous things I have make me happy. Yes, I can live without them. But why should I have to? I can’t help my ridiculousness, or my need to nest, or my love of physical manifestations of good memories. I can’t help that I’m broken and need to take up space to feel safe and unremovable. What’s more, at this point in my life, I don’t feel all that obligied to change who I am. This is what you get: pink hair, giant boobs, a whooooole lot of really cool nerd things, baggage, wine, and beer.

We’re getting close to Important Dates in the Great Relocate timeline. Scary, grown-up things will be happening over the next few weeks, along with a lot of really exciting things: New York. Holiday parties. Travel plans. Gingerbread Oreos.

Stuff is good, even with my internal conflicts, unending uncertainty about work, and overall planning stress. I just need to keep reminding myself.