Moving: The Torture and the Triumph

In front of our old house on moving day, 2020
The look on my face says it all.

Saturday marks the third anniversary of moving into our dream home. It was a relocation of both Herculean and Jeffersonian proportions.

Previously, we stagnated in a house we had sorely outgrown. We remained 15 years longer than we should have, all because of my deep abhorrence of moving. It was the ultimate non-starter. I bolted every time Joe even hinted at the topic. 

Strangers dismount my prize mirror
from the dining room wall

I was not sentimental about that home. It had boxy rooms, a tiny yard, and challenging neighbors. But mentally, I could not get to the “happily ever after.” I was stuck on chapter one, the part where we had to stuff everything we owned into brown boxes and entrust the handover of our most valuable possessions to burly, clumsy, uncaring strangers. 

In my earlier years, I was practically nomadic and packed up my belongings every year or two to relocate to a new dorm, better apartment, or sexier neighborhood. But even back then, I had trouble getting past the harsh reality of moving. It grew into an advanced phobia.

One of Joe’s roles in life is to prod me out of my laziness -- to exercise more, organize the pantry, walk the dogs, and every twenty years or so, change homes. We would still be in our starter home if it were not for his sway. 

Mr. Tinkles

Joe is a wicked hard worker and never shrinks from a new challenge. In contrast, faced with labor, I retreat to my bed or feign fainting spells. On our first joint moving day back in 2003, my breakdown was so complete that Joe had to give me a time-out. He lovingly set me up in bed with Mr. Tinkles (our cat) and a TV to watch Rosemary's Baby -- a saga that begins with an ill-fated move -- as he continued to unpack boxes.

This time, I made a deal with him. I would agree to relocate if he kept his promise to do the packing, unpacking, and organizing -- in other words, everything. I got the fun part -- taking the lead in working with our longtime interior designer Mary Burkhardt on floor plans and selecting new furnishings.

In the nearly three months it took Joe to gather all of our stuff and jettison our unwanted belongings, he had only one well-deserved mini meltdown. He then picked himself up and continued to go at it.

Dumpster detritus

Even after a purge involving an industrial-sized dumpster in our driveway, we had so much stuff that the movers scheduled us for two full days. As the clock ran out on day two, they were still scampering to collect all manner of miscellany from the old house at 8 p.m.

My job in all this was supervisory. On our moving day, I stood at the new front door and directed traffic while Joe got busy unpacking our clothes. The previous homeowner, with outrageous nerve, took this ill-timed opportunity to drop in on us and see how we were doing. “Isn’t moving the worst?” she quizzed me. Yes, it was. 

While moving may be one of life’s most hellacious experiences, it leads to eventual elation. For all the duress, we were extremely fortunate. I already mentioned it was our dream home.

The first marble table seconds before 
it crashed in our driveway

After a few months, everything fell into place. Mary’s designs unfolded. Most of the new furniture came in, despite two major setbacks -- one involving an Italian marble table that the delivery men crashed in our driveway, the other concerning a diva headboard that simply would not fit through the passage to our bedroom. 

Three years after our big move, my PTSD is manageable. I still marvel at all the labor, good faith, and other resources it took to get us where we are today. I love it here. 

 

I am ever grateful for Joe’s can-do spirit. He got us where we needed to be. 

Our New Home, Sweet Home