Saturday, August 1, 2009
Posted by Tallgirl at 10:59 PM
It's been an exhausting and stressful few days, but I am officially moved and am writing from my new office in my new South Philly row home. Just in time for the 30-day blogger challenge, I have internet access and am ready to go. I may be surrounded by unpacked boxes and not be able to find the proper kitchen utensils when I need them, but by noon the day after the move, we were already cruising on the internet superhighway. I have my priorities.
Since the day of the move, I've been reminded how completely awful moving is. I've moved seven times in the last seven years. I stayed in a couple of apartments more than a year, but I also moved in less than a year a couple of times as well. I am so done moving. Granted, I said the same thing last year, but I believe it this time. Last year's move was to a smaller place--but it was cheaper and it allowed pets, two things we desperately wanted. We thought we could be happy there for at least a couple of years. However, the apartment proved to be just too small. My husband is an artist, and he didn't realize how important having a space to work--even just a table in a corner--was until he no longer had one. It just wasn't possible for him to have a designated work space in our old apartment. Now, we have a three-bedroom row home. I have my own office--a space to write and work on the crafty projects that have been brewing in my head. My husband has a studio. The two of us and our dog could each have a floor to ourselves for the evening if we so desired. Glorious, glorious space.
The last two nights we went back to West Philly to finish cleaning our old apartment. I knew I would feel sad being back in that space, but I wouldn't have predicted the rush of pure emotion that overcame me that first night. As a looked around the empty rooms, I saw the blue paint that we picked out together and spent sweaty nights applying to the living room walls just a year ago. I saw the only home our dog knows with us, our first apartment as a married couple.
"We only lived here a year," Tim said when he saw my eyes swell with tears.
"I know," I said in a gasping-for-air-staccato as I began to cry, "but this place just has so many memories."
We had to go over there again last night to mop and clean out the refridgerator.
"Are you going to be okay?" Tim asked me in the car on the way over.
"I don't know," I said. "I thought I was going to be okay last night, and that clearly wasn't the case."
Last night I was okay until right before we left when we had the car loaded with final miscellaneous items from the basement, the refridgerator shelves sparkling and the floors mopped as clean as they were going to get. Tim and I stood in the doorway of our bedroom. The yellow walls I painted last summer still looked sunshine happy. Tim whispered goodbye to the apartment, and a lone tear began to trickle down my cheek. He put his arm around me, and I buried my face in his chest; physically exhausted from our week and sad to leave, I gave the place one last cry.
"As long as we're together, we'll be home," Tim said.
I knew he was right. We were about to start a new chapter. Together.