I Hate Moving: Self Talk
For the last month I have been moving.
Not once.
Twice.
Sounds like a college kid, doesn’t it?
From my home of a dozen years to a rental, and today I will finish moving my worldly possessions from the rental to my new home.
Moving is hideous. Everyone knows that.
But why?
There is the physical reality of boxing up everything I own efficiently, only to find the boxes are too heavy to carry.
Which leads to the question I repeat to myself, “Do I really need what is in this box?”
And so I open the box and find a stack of plates. Not plates I use. Or have ever used. Rather, plates that were my grandmother’s who got them from her mother.
Then the self-talk begins . . .
“Tape it back up, bro. The guilt associated with giving them away would be far worse than that numbness in your feet caused by that disc in your lower back. Be a man. Remember, lift with your legs.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“I don’t know but I read it. Lift with your legs.”
“Why are all those boxes marked ‘Alcohol’ or ‘Wine’ or ‘Fragile: Good Wine?’ Do I have an alcohol problem?”
“Of course you do.”
“Why?”
“Remember your second wife?”
“I do but I don’t want to get into that now. I need a drink.”
Open box labeled “Cheap vodka.”
“A little nip won’t hurt anyone. I feel all better now.”
“Why are you carrying almost a hundred boxes to a home owned by a decorator but never lived in that is completely furnished?
“It’s my stuff. Mine.”
“What about all this art? Her art is better than your art. You should sell yours.”
“I can’t sell my art.”
“Why not?”
“It would look needy. Like the stock market crashed or something.”
“The stock market did crash, fool. Worst month since 2008.”
“That was depressing.”
Open “Cheap Vodka” box. Again.
“I wish I knew where the “Good Vodka” box was.”
“I’ll bet you do. Why are you packing your toaster and blender and small appliances? The former owner left those, too. And they are all brand new.”
“I should donate these?”
“Yes, you should.”
“Jesus. What about all these clothes? You never wear any of them. You are slouching into oblivion, remember? You wear jeans and a t-shirt everyday.”
“I should donate them.”
“Yes, you should. And what about these boxes labeled ‘Books?’ There are only two kinds of books in these boxes, Jim. Books you have read and will never read again, and books you will never read. Jesus, you have two copies of the same book in the same box. What’s wrong with you?”
“I like books.”
“What about this one marked ‘Books - Spiritual?’ You are not spiritual. Never have been. You are an atheist. A nihilist.”
“But I have always dreamt of being Zen-like.”
“Stop dreaming, dude, and pack. Donate that entire box. It ain’t happening.”
“You’re right.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why am I talking to myself?”
“Because there is no one else here. Pack.”
“I need a drink.”
“It’s nine o’clock in the morning. You want to start day-drinking again?”
“Not everyday. Just this morning.”
“The help will be here soon. You don’t want them to see you drinking before noon. They think you are an upstanding guy, the best boss ever. You don’t want them to think of you as a drunk, do you?”
“No. But I hate you.”
“You are me, moron.”
“Then I hate myself.”
“You need therapy. But first, you need to finish packing.”
“Am I my stuff?”
“Not now, Jim. Save the existential bullshit for later. Otherwise you have to pay another month’s rent.”
“I can’t lift this box.”
“Lift with your legs.”
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