Of all the things I don't do well, moving has to top the list. Even though I had had weeks to prepare. Executed two successful garage sales. Worked Craig's List like a fiend, I was still woefully unprepared yesterday when the moving van pulled into our yard.
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I had just returned from BlogHer - which I have been affectionately calling Spring Break for Grown Ladies the afternoon before. Or perhaps it was the fact that teams of individuals were working in tandem to disassemble anything remotely of value before my eyes and under my roof. I mentioned a few items we sold yesterday. The fence. The stove. But on Tuesday they came for the cabinets, the front and back doors. All of our windows. Our skylight. Our toilet. Our doorbell. Our mailbox. Our sink. Shelves. Deck. On and on and on.
So by the time the girls and the dog and the belongings and the car were all loaded and accounted for and my husband was gunning the diesel engine of a 24' moving van, I felt like I had lived a lifetime in one day. It was the EXACT opposite of those meaningful and glorious days - like the birth of a child or the marriage of your beloved -it was as if each second tick-tocked by in an excruciating slow pace. Each moment reminding me how I fail at adulthood and simply attempt to barrel through the icky and unpleasant parts.
As we pressed on heading west, my husband and I recounted the details that miraculously had all survived. He mentioned the fact that the woman buying the cabinets and her contractor had both brought their sons for assistance on the day the cabinets had been sold.
THAT day? I asked. That day? That day also happens to be known as TODAY.
And we laughed at the moving marathon we had survived. We looked much less like professional athletes and more like the sole that barely survives and ends up as a feature story with an unbelievably embarrassing photo.