And lo: every time you unpack it looks like this, and by the time you’re packing again it looks like this. It is the law of the universe. The accumulation of dust made of human skin and grains of two-year-old fried rice. And every time, you say you’re never moving again. And always, when it’s time to move, where you are is the worst place you’ve ever been and where you’re going will be easier to clean, more conducive to an aspirational existence, and no one will hear or complain about your PS3 Karaoke Revolution performances. The packing materials will dematerialize. The roses will get over their botrytis blight. You will never argue again. If you do argue, you’ll whisper-fight. The cats will not piss in the bathtub. The dog will never run away. The socks will become monogamous. You will not need a toilet plunger and your garbage disposal will never decide it’s not omnivorous. You will shed the shame of the issues of The Week from forty weeks ago that are stuck to each other with soda and synthetic cheese powder. You will never have to move again. This time is it. If you had to move again, some time down the road in a few years when you’ve outgrown the vessel or the spiders start to creep in the window cracks, it would not be worth it — the expense, the broken frames, the strained backs, the broken bottles of olive oil — so this time, it’s final. Everything must have a home. The dustbuster and the extension cords and the Montreal steak seasoning and the sweatshirts. You will never do it again. Every time.
Three months post-move and the wounds are still raw, the ‘temporary’ piles are still everywhere, and the dust has returned.
With a vengeance.
[best of luck, Tess]