The Move is Trying to Break You
If it succeeds, at least go down swinging.
Moving: oh, my Lord.
Whether you're thrilled to be leaving one home in favor of another or doing so only reluctantly, the universal equalizer among humans is the experience of packing up your whole life and all its accoutrements, so that you can travel some distance and then immediately unpack it all again, this time in an unfamiliar location. It is, to put it mildly, a tremendous pain in the ass.
Sure, it's easy enough to lovingly pack the first seven or eight boxes: this box will contain my British chick-lit, 1990-2005; this box will be neatly filled with my collection of miniature porcelain cardinals. And this one over here? Why, this box shall safeguard my precious Bath and Body Works candles, fall scents, A through H!
But then you finish packing the easily categorizable stuff. Your clothes have been thrown into Hefty bags or hanger boxes - minus the few outfits you left out, for which the weather will inevitably be all wrong. Your music, movies, dishes, and linens are boxed up. And now you're down to the weird stuff. You don't know what to do with any of it.
You know what I mean by the weird stuff, don't you? I'm talking about the stuff that you don't exactly want to get rid of, but that you'd also never want to be handed to your tearful loved ones by an awkward official, saying, “This is all that's left of her. I'm sorry.”
It's the vaguely embarrassing stuff that you know you should probably get rid of. But when your back’s against a wall, you do, paradoxically, have to at least try to defend it. “Why do I have a full-sized rubber chicken? It was a prop! In a play I did … twenty years ago.” “I use these three headbands topped with seven-inch-tall Christmas trees all the time, thank you very much!” “What’s wrong with my open mouth bass-shaped slippers? They're awesome!” “Well, maybe I think there's something wrong with you if you don't have two semi-broken Magic 8 Balls, a painted concrete goose, and an Ohio State Rubik's cube!”
So you round up all that crap in some more boxes. You label it “MISC,” because “White Elephant Re-Gifts” won't fit on the label.
And after that, after all that, somehow the house doesn't look any less empty. You try to tell yourself that it's an optical illusion: it's just that, instead of all your stuff in its usual places, there's now a Stonehenge of stacked moving boxes in your house. But you know it's a lie.
The truth is that, even after everything you've been through - all the tender nestling, all the exasperated flinging, and everything in between - there is still more stuff.
“What is all this stuff?!” you ask yourself desperately. You truly don't know.
Then - a glimmer. Faint at first, but - yes! Aha!
The knowledge you sought alights gently upon your brow. You take a moment to register it, and then you spin around, jabbing an accusatory finger at that other adult here: your partner. You know, the person you've pledged to love, honor, and cherish for all the rest of your born days.
And you lose it.
“This is all your stuff!” you shriek. “This is all yours! When, exactly, were you going to pack your shit?!” For this is, of course, the boiling point at which your beloved's personal items transform from “stuff" into “shit.”
A standoff ensues. Both sides make noises about whose job it is to do what, fair division of labor, and the necessity of owning three copies of the same film in various DVD formats. And why are these three DVDs not okay, but your four pairs of black peep-toe pumps are justified? And all those dresses? And the candles?! My God, woman, the candles alone -
“BECAUSE I'M ACTUALLY WILLING TO PACK THEM MYSELF!” you scream insanely.
“Well, if you didn't have five thousand pairs of shoes to pack, maybe you'd have a tiny little bit of energy to help me! I'm working here, or did you forget? I'm trying to -”
It seems neither of you will give an inch, until, finally, one of you snaps under the weight of it all.
“Stop it! Stop! It's trying to pit us against each other!” you sob. “Don't you see? This is what the move wants!”
He stares at you for a minute, still seething, and then, in a flash, gone is the fire in your partner's eyes. Before you stands just a man - a man who loves you, whom you love in return.
“Oh, honey,” he says, and you rush into his arms, the foe seemingly vanquished by the sheer force of your cooperation.
And you do cooperate. Not all three DVDs make the move, nor do all of the books. Not all four pairs of nearly identical shoes come along, either. And it seems you could also do without a few bags of clothes and - yes -some candles. You even let go of a few of the things from the “MISC" box, although what you'll do at Christmas for the White Elephant gift exchange is anybody's guess.
A few impromptu trips to Goodwill are made.
Then comes the actual day, and you arrive at your new home. Of course, you don't really think of it that way immediately, since everything is weird and you don't know where any of your stuff should go.
Uncertainly, you begin to unpack anyway. Slowly, the moving boxes are emptied, unfolded and laid flat, and stuffed in a receptacle outside. As you put your furniture in place, hook up the TVs, fill your new closets with clothes and your new built-ins with all those books and ceramic cardinals, you emerge from the stress-induced fog of the move.
You look around, surveying the scene. Your partner does the same. Eventually, your eyes meet, and your faces are mirror reflections of confusion.
Finally, one of you speaks.
“Where the hell is the rest of our stuff?”
And that's when you know: although you fought with everything you had, you tried with all your might to resist, the move won anyway.
The move always wins.