So I'm at my therapist yesterday and we were talking about moving. There is something oh so American and casually decadent about starting a sentence with "So I'm at my therapist yesterday . . ." Anyway - we were talking about moving and she asked me to chronicle my moves starting from birth until the age of 18. I have to back up and tell you that this entire conversation was initiated because we are seriously considering having to move in the next 9 months and so while my husband looks for a job and interviews, I am considering medication and more extensive psychotherapy to cope with yet another moving truck, boxes and listening to the cat yowl from a box on the front seat of the car.
Let me back up, after a long 7 years of school during which only a few pair of shoes were purchased, we will be done next summer. D-O-N-E! It has been eventful, tearful, wild and annoying. I realized after moving to the South Bay that I hated moving and I hated new houses and I hated areas of the planet that were heavily populated. I also hate mini vans but I digress. So in preparation for this upcoming move, I have to do several things to get ready and one of those things is to talk to my therapist and consider taking something for the panic and anxiety that yet another move produces.
So back to my original theme, as I chronicled the moves in my life I realized that there is a reason why my husband is so sane and normal, he moved once in 18 years, O-N-C-E! What a dream. What a life opportunity. What a fortunate young man. I, on the other hand lost track of the moves by the time I was 12. It is no wonder that I cannot do this easily, gracefully or generously. But this move is it. This is the move to end all moves. And then we will stay put.
At least until the next time.