I should probably know better than to blog when I'm 1.5 cocktails in and sans dinner. Nevertheless. I figured completing my move and handing my keys over to the landlord deserved a little celebrating. So here I sit, grooving to some DMB (make fun. go ahead. I don't care. We've been in love for 13 years. God I'm old) and thinking a bit too much.

So for the past 6 days I've been in moving hell. And I finally figured out why this morning. This is the first move that I (foolishly) attempted to do on my own. Of course, my lovely, wonderful friends came by Saturday afternoon to do some heavy lifting, but that only lasted two hours. Literally. It took two hours to move all my furniture (plus what the roommate's parents had shuffled over two nights earlier). Sure, it was two hot, grueling, sweaty hours, but two hours nonetheless. Meanwhile, I spent half of Thursday, all day Friday, most of Saturday, a small part of Sunday, all of Monday, and half of today (Tuesday) moving all the other small, annoying shit (minus the contents of the kitchen, which my amazing roommate and her sister moved while we were hefting the furniture). Ok, I know this sounds confusing, since I'm referencing a roommate, yet lamenting moving all on my own, but here's the story:

For the past year I've lived with C, who is awesome, but who graduated this past May and is moving out of the country in December, and my housing association only allows 12 month leases, so she and all her stuff moved out a week and a half ago. Meanwhile, her younger sister is in town for the summer, so my new landlady is allowing me to bend the rules and live with her for two months while looking for a more permanent roommate come August (know anyone looking for housing?). So the little sister lived in limbo with me at the old place for several days, then officially moved into the new place this weekend. So between the roommate, her sister, and their parents, there was help. But mostly just for their stuff. And somehow I managed to remain firmly entrenched in denial about just how much shit I managed to accumulate in three years. The longest I've lived in any one place since moving out of my parents' house. All my moves to college dorm rooms came with help from the parents, moving into my first apartment was accompanied by lots of help from the parents and roommates and friends, and moving out of the apartment and back home for the summer was again roommates and parents (and grandma!). Moving to atlanta was me and the parents. Moving once within atlanta was my first experience with professional movers. This move was two doors down, so hiring professionals seemed silly (and beyond my saving-for-euros budget). So I'd say I did 90% of this move on my own. And holy shit did that suck. I really should have asked for even more help than I did. But c'est la vie. At least I got my workout (and then some) in this week. But I swear, if I have to walk up one more flight of stairs, I may burst into tears.

At least the silver lining is that moving provided the perfect opportunity to throw away and give away and recycle things. I am now officially in love with my closet. It's organized and I can see everything and I can even step into the closet to find things without stepping around a sea of crap piled on the floor. It's awesome. I still can't seem to bring myself to part with any more books, although every time I move I swear I'm going to break off that particular love affair.

Ok, end boring post about moving. Shocker, it sucks. Everyone knows this. I have two Ezra Klein articles bookmarked, so perhaps a return to content soonish.