I move every year. Sometimes for price reasons, for neighborhood reasons, sometimes to flee infestations, to flee singlehood, to flee relationships. Sometimes it is roommates doing these things and my end of the lease is collateral damage. Changing position within the city feels like the natural extension of the shifting social currents that have been pushing me through to adulthood over the past decade.
I am famous for moving. One of the books I’m trying to get rid of is signed by the author with a cheerful note commenting that the two times said author met me, I’d been in the middle of moving. I’ve published essays about it. So it feels logical that, in my mother’s words, I’d be “pretty good at it by now.”
One of the things I know from moving all the time is that in the week before a move, you stay up all night. Having spent most of the daylight hours procrastinating by reading through your old bank statements and being mesmerized by the Blue Planet DVDs you put in for background noise, nighttime is the right time for packing. You also stay up all night with that roving anxiety that is your physical self reacting to imminent change. That too.
One of the obsessive insomniac motifs keeping me company this week is how I am about to experience a dramatic loss of street cred. Explanation:
Item 1: I am moving from New York to Los Angeles shortly.
Item 2: I have lived in New York for ten years.
Item 3: I have never been to Los Angeles.
Here is a list of housewares and furniture I have accrued over the past 8 years:
- 3 sofas
- 3 beds (twin, queen, full)
- 5 bookshelves
- hundreds of books
- 2 comfy chairs
- 2 kitchen islands
- 3 clothes bureaus
- Countless dishes, cookware and other thingamabobs
Here are the things I currently have:
- about 35 books
- set of wine glasses
- 3 plates and a bowl
You’re welcome, curb-hunters of the world! It’s moving time again.