Ok. First things first, I want to apologize to my one and only, Sarah Deeeeeeeee for not writing this sooner. You’d think that with approximately 8 hours of travel, I would have plenty of time to write a blog post, and fine, valid. But counter point:
And second counter point:
So, obviously, you can understand my delay. Oh, in case I’ve confused everyone–I’m in New York, currently, chasing the Great White Buffalo that is a real job. But that’s not why we’re here now, is it? (It’s not.)
Let’s just start here: I am a procrastinator. In 99.9% of situations, I will wait until the last possible moment to start a project (in interviews we describe this quality as “thriving under pressure and strict deadlines). Moving out of my condo, however, was NOT one of these instances. I started packing up my room about two and a half weeks before my move out date, and I thought I was on top of things.
And I was, in theory. I purged about 40% of my wardrobe, I cleaned out my closet from top to bottom [I HELPED! — Sarah] and I managed to ditch a large portion of the papers that have accumulated over the past three years. And yet, even with all of this preparation, when push came to shove, I, unlike Sarah, was like this.
See, here’s the thing: I am a pack rat. And worse than that, I am a sentimental pack rat. So every time I come across anything that can and should be thrown away, I’m like, “But guys!!!! What about all the things we felt when we read this issue of Cosmo??? How can we just throw it away?? Here. I’ll just put it in this really safe box in my laundry room and it will live forever and then one day, in twenty years when we are reminiscing about this very moment, you will all thank me for saving it and buy me like ten beers out of gratitude.” The logic is flawless, I know. Except when you have the knowledge that in approximately three weeks, you will be loading all of your possessions into a medium sized truck and driving them to the other side of the country. That is when things become problematic. And that is precisely the position I found myself in about one week ago.
After a whole week of throwing old clothes into garbage bags with limited fanfare, I thought I had really grown out of my hoarding. I was wrong. Just when I thought I had really found my stride in packing, I started the living room and kitchen. I don’t want to be over-dramatic here, but trying to decide what to keep and what to throw out in the main living areas of my house was like asking me to choose between Suki and Sarah three to six times every hour. It was torture. On my last night in the condo, I sat cross legged in the middle of my empty living room, staring at a pile of ceramics in tears. I felt like I was the lead killer in a completely unfair, unwarranted shooting squad. “Oh hi, unassuming, wide-eyed pig wearing an ascot. What’s that? You want to live? Well, you make a compelling argument. But on the other hand, this cougar fish with the blood stained teeth is REALLY well crafted.” BOOM. DEAD.
Suffice it to say that by 11:30 p.m. the day before the move out inspection, I was running out of my house with a tear stained face, throwing clothes into my car without abandon. Thanks to the unbeatable combo of adrenaline and hormones, I managed to get my entire closet and nearly everything left in my house into the car before midnight. It was a sad victory, but a victory nonetheless. Or it would have been, if my entire block didn’t think that I was making a night cloaked escape from my abusive boyfriend-which, it turns out, they did.