.moving again.
i am getting ready to move for the sixth time in three years. lining up my books in small boxes (so they won't be too heavy). folding up sweaters and putting them in big ones. this time, i'm giving a lot of my stuff away. i took a trunk full of clothes and things that i never use to the goodwill yesterday. i tend to move in warmer weather, and this has lead to giving away most of my bulky winter clothes on several occasions. this move is no different. i threw my robe into the giveaway pile this time. i'm down to one pair of pajamas. i've started giving away knick-knacks: plaster figures of the virgin mary, candleholders, useless decorations.
i'm thinking about giving away my books. all of them except for my favorite: a children's book by lois lowry called "the giver." that's the only book i reread. that and some hemingway. i'll keep some hemingway.
i'm sitting on my couch now, among boxes and wrinkled, strewn clothing, among wreckage of my home and a couple of lazy cats. my cats couldn't be cooler about the situation. they fail to notice that the house is in shambles, instead relishing the new hiding spots in tipped-over boxes. i'm eating a cookie and letting crumbs grind into the grooves of the couch. i'm getting rid of it anyway. it was free.
i spend most of my time sorting and consolidating. putting matchbooks with matchbooks, snapshots with snapshots. the tiny objects get much more attention than the big ones. i open up boxes of bagged tea. i put the mint with the mint and the green with the green. i pace from closet to kitchen cupboards, doing a little bit at a time. fold a few sweaters, bag a few canned goods. i really have this process down.
i don't know if it's the impending move that facilitated my leaving early from work today. it was 4:30 when i got in my car, and i was already crying. it wasn't hard to cry today, but instant – quick and fast and hard. i choked up in the break room, pouring coffee, talking about sufjan stevens. when i wasn't crying today, i was angry – gritting my teeth, slamming down the phone receiver. i don't think it's fair to put them in different categories. they're the same bad mood, the same symptom of distress. it's just more appropriate to slam a receiver than it is to shake and sob at work.
there's something about anticipating a move, packing and letting the house go to hell, that feels just like the dream i had when i was little where i was alice and i was falling down the hole. it makes me feel totally out of control, helpless, and alone. i dread asking people for help, but i am absolutely dependent on the generosity of friends. their hands, their trucks, their saturday mornings.
there are always friends who won't do it. they won't give up a few hours on their weekend to give me a hand. they don't offer, so i have to ask them. i do it jokingly and graciously, making it clear that i'll fill them up on beers and thai food. asking for help in this straightforward manner is the most vulnerable position i ever put myself in. i'm desperate and helpless, and i have to admit it. people who won't help you move are not your real friends.
it's just like the "emergency contact" form that i have to fill out at work, at the doctor, the dentist. it made me ill when i was little, when we had to fill out the form for school. it was simple then, because we all just filled out our mothers, fathers, or legal guardians. everybody had someone who was legally required to pick her up if she felt sick or caused a raucous during recess. it was the law that everyone has at least one person in the world who would love her and have her back. i feared, even then, that my mom wouldn't answer the phone on the day that something bad happened to me at school. it was her habit, to ignore the ring completely, and she had mastered it. if i ever felt ill at school, or forgot my homework, the phone would ring and ring. i understood that my mother's disdain for the phone didn't reflect emotional abandonment, but as far as i was concerned, from 9 to 3:30, i was on my own.
that's how it feels, asking friends for help when i have to move. like having a tummy ache at school, sitting in the nurse's office, and listening to the phone ring and ring. hoping that someone will pick up.
i'm thinking about giving away my books. all of them except for my favorite: a children's book by lois lowry called "the giver." that's the only book i reread. that and some hemingway. i'll keep some hemingway.
i'm sitting on my couch now, among boxes and wrinkled, strewn clothing, among wreckage of my home and a couple of lazy cats. my cats couldn't be cooler about the situation. they fail to notice that the house is in shambles, instead relishing the new hiding spots in tipped-over boxes. i'm eating a cookie and letting crumbs grind into the grooves of the couch. i'm getting rid of it anyway. it was free.
i spend most of my time sorting and consolidating. putting matchbooks with matchbooks, snapshots with snapshots. the tiny objects get much more attention than the big ones. i open up boxes of bagged tea. i put the mint with the mint and the green with the green. i pace from closet to kitchen cupboards, doing a little bit at a time. fold a few sweaters, bag a few canned goods. i really have this process down.
i don't know if it's the impending move that facilitated my leaving early from work today. it was 4:30 when i got in my car, and i was already crying. it wasn't hard to cry today, but instant – quick and fast and hard. i choked up in the break room, pouring coffee, talking about sufjan stevens. when i wasn't crying today, i was angry – gritting my teeth, slamming down the phone receiver. i don't think it's fair to put them in different categories. they're the same bad mood, the same symptom of distress. it's just more appropriate to slam a receiver than it is to shake and sob at work.
there's something about anticipating a move, packing and letting the house go to hell, that feels just like the dream i had when i was little where i was alice and i was falling down the hole. it makes me feel totally out of control, helpless, and alone. i dread asking people for help, but i am absolutely dependent on the generosity of friends. their hands, their trucks, their saturday mornings.
there are always friends who won't do it. they won't give up a few hours on their weekend to give me a hand. they don't offer, so i have to ask them. i do it jokingly and graciously, making it clear that i'll fill them up on beers and thai food. asking for help in this straightforward manner is the most vulnerable position i ever put myself in. i'm desperate and helpless, and i have to admit it. people who won't help you move are not your real friends.
it's just like the "emergency contact" form that i have to fill out at work, at the doctor, the dentist. it made me ill when i was little, when we had to fill out the form for school. it was simple then, because we all just filled out our mothers, fathers, or legal guardians. everybody had someone who was legally required to pick her up if she felt sick or caused a raucous during recess. it was the law that everyone has at least one person in the world who would love her and have her back. i feared, even then, that my mom wouldn't answer the phone on the day that something bad happened to me at school. it was her habit, to ignore the ring completely, and she had mastered it. if i ever felt ill at school, or forgot my homework, the phone would ring and ring. i understood that my mother's disdain for the phone didn't reflect emotional abandonment, but as far as i was concerned, from 9 to 3:30, i was on my own.
that's how it feels, asking friends for help when i have to move. like having a tummy ache at school, sitting in the nurse's office, and listening to the phone ring and ring. hoping that someone will pick up.
posted by .i'll never tell. at 6:02 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home