Sisyphean Blues: Moving Day Cometh
Is there any ordeal that we deliver upon ourselves more soul crushing than moving house?
I say, “Nay, there is none!”
Don’t get me wrong, it’s totally worth it. A shiny new place to live. That is clean to a degree that it will NEVER be again (during your tenancy, at least). And everything is so organized. It feels like a brand new beginning…
But it comes at the end of one helluva slog. A Sisyphean slog.
Boxes need to be filled, and you have so much more stuff than you ever thought you did, so there are more boxes than you could have imagined (I said, “we’ll need twenty.” The count stands just shy of forty). And you find more stuff–old stuff–in the darnedest places. Stuff you thought you had gotten rid of ages ago seems to come back to you, like a crappy boomerang whirling on back from wherever the hell Amelia Earhart and lost socks wind up. And the novelty of finding your old crap instills in you a nostalgic yearning, and so you put it in the box. And Sisyphus’ task grows.
And the books… Oh lord, the books. I knew that I started going digital for a reason. The romance of a sweet library is cut off at the knees when you have to move that library from A to B…
In the end, it’ll all be worth it. A happy wife and a happy cat with more space to spread. A room just for the books (and, you know, other stuff too). That’s the mountain top for sure. Of course, like Sisyphus, sooner or later it’s the renter’s lot to wind up back at the bottom of the hill all over again. But for the time being, I’m gonna enjoy that mountain air.