Space

The final frontier.

Well I got my goddess pose, and it was great, as always. Today we were reminded to leave room for opportunity and ourselves, and to take up space because we’re worth it. I think I’m doing that. I personally also need to remember to not leave dead space. I am really good at wasting time. Like gold-medal good. Some people hate sitting still and doing nothing. There are times when I’m like that, but for the most part I really enjoy being quiet and alone and passive. That’s great for like a short amount of time on occasion, especially for busy people, but I am pointedly not a busy person, and I can lose myself in that. Of the seven, I am most guilty of sloth.

But I can combat this by drinking coffee. It used to be that caffeine didn’t really do anything to me, but in the last five-ish years, I lose my goddamned mind when I get some. I just had six ounces of light roast and holy shit, I think my heart is going to burst out of my chest, and just sitting here is excruciating. Like, I’m happy that I’m typing and getting this out and being productive, but fuck me do I feel an intense urge to clean the entire house. I’m in the middle of that already, I was just thinking, okay, take ten minutes to write a little of a post then get back to it, but I am really itching to get back up and move furniture.

So I got a new (to me) dining table from my mom (hence the need to move furniture). It’s about 100 years old and was made by the mother of a friend of my grandparents (so like, the generational equivalent of my great-grandmother, and I’m a 31 year old lady whose grandparents were born in the 20s). I think it’s especially cool because it’s woodworking done by a woman in probably the 1930s, and I like the look of it–it reminds me of a viking hall which is the feel I’ve always wanted for a dining room. I also grew up around this table, I had birthday parties around it, put together puzzles on it, played house underneath it, so it’s admittedly sentimental.

The only issue is we already have a dining room table that we got a few years ago off Amazon. I got a counter-height, square table that we really loved for the time we had it. It did come damaged from the warehouse, multiple edges chipped, so when I advised Amazon, I got a deep discount on it (since there was no way it was getting shipped back) and that made me love the table even more. Over the years I’ve done a number of crafts on it, so there are some gashes and paint stains and hot glue globs stuck to it, and remember it started out banged up, so it’s not in the kind of shape that most other people would want, so I’m in the process of figuring out what to do with it and its chairs (too high for the new one). I do not like to hoard, so things must be useful, or they must go.

I’m a fan of space, but not of waste.

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This morning I got up a bit earlier than normal to be ready for a delivery. Since moving we’ve had a number of big deliveries that we have had to be home for, and in every instance that delivery has come outside the delivery window, at the very possible end, in the dark, so you can imagine how surprised I was to get a phone call at 7:30 this morning telling me the delivery would be here in “10 to 15 minutes” when the window was 8 to 12, but at least I didn’t have to wait around for it??

My mom sent me a number of pieces of heirloom furniture, but one of the pieces was missing. I’ve spoken with the moving company four times, and not once did they mention the whole shipment wouldn’t arrive at once even when they were confirming the date, but when the movers showed up, the first thing the guy says it me is “you know we don’t have the rocking chair right?”

No, sir, I did not know that.

So this morning consisted of making calls and wondering if the rocking chair that has been used by at least three generations of women in my family to rock their babies had been accidentally destroyed. They say it just got mis-numbered and is still on its way, but we shall see.

UPDATE: In the middle of writing this blog, I got a call. The rocker has been damaged. They were apparently going to try and fix it, but thankfully they didn’t (I don’t know what would possess them to take that liberty with a 100 year old hand-carved piece of furniture), and it’s coming as-is sometime next week. Get ready for exciting blogs where I try to find an antique furniture repair person.

When that was over, I jumped into Expand just as the sun aligned itself with the side window in my yoga room. The pace has continued to stay up which is exactly what I want and need, and my thighs got what I was asking for yesterday.

Then I went on a walk in the feels-like-30-degrees weather, and that was pretty pleasant. I gained some weight since last summer from being really sedentary and eating my feelings again (you never recover from an eating disorder, I think, you just learn how to keep it at bay), and I’m trying to get rid of the few extra pounds by this coming spring, but unfortunately I am partial to how my butt looks with extra weight. NOT EVERYTHING ELSE, MIND YOU, just the butt. It’s a real bummer. Get it? BUMMER?

But the point is, I am feeling so much better being active and watching what I eat. It’s not totally under control yet, but it’s getting there. I just wanted to say because when Adriene says “take up space” she doesn’t mean with adipose, and that’s something I need to remind myself of.

Take what you need, leave what you don’t.

The Big Move Part I: Optimism

If there is only one universal truth to life, it is surely this: You are never really prepared to move.

You can have a plan laid out, you can do as much ahead of time as possible, you can watch all the tips and tricks videos that exist, but you will never truly be prepared for the physical, mental, and emotional shitfest you are about to embark upon when you decide to uproot your entire life and trek it across the country.

That isn’t to say it’s all bad, but let’s be honest: you are not here for the warm fuzzies.

So Husband got an awesome new job in a new city in a new state. We’d lived in and around Tampa, Florida for almost seven years, the majority of our relationship, but in four different homes: two apartments and two houses. Including our time in Ohio, we’ve moved together a total of five times with increasingly more things. We accumulated plenty of stuff, and I did my best to purge it (see: Letting Go), but it’s never enough. You know those weirdos who can fit their whole lives into a single duffel bag? They have life figured out. The couple weeks leading up to the move, we threw away and boxed up so much shit. We made four trips to Goodwill with our Jeep Renegade FULL of things to donate, we filled our giant trash bins to the brim at least four times, and I pawned off and recycled what I could, so when I looked through the house the night before we got the moving truck, I was incredibly self assured. I mean, I was fucking pumped. No part of me dreaded the upcoming process, I was all smiles and checklists and positive affirmations.

And then we started.

The plan was to pick up the truck Tuesday morning (I had worked on Monday, mind you, my last day, and had been slowly packing the week prior), and we would take a load of large items to the dump, return home, load the truck, clean the house, sleep for a few hours, then get up at about 4:00am on Wednesday and go. That didn’t happen.

I did my best to stay peppy and upbeat, and even if everything had gone perfectly, the physical act of moving is exhausting. We did get the truck on Tuesday morning, and we did take large items, including our couch, love seat, and recliner, to the dump (I tried very hard to give these things away, but no one wants baby-barf brown, cat-shredded furniture nowadays: beggars really can be choosers, Val). On the way back from the landfill where, I have to say, I had a great time throwing a metal filing cabinet on top of a mirror and absolutely shattering it, I looked at the clock and chirped that we were making great time, it was almost noon, and we could go grab some of Husband’s favorite Thai place for lunch. Little did I know, he had already turned pessimistic (see: realistic), questioning if we had time to stop for lunch or even if we’d get done that day. Of course! I declared through a pearly white smile, we’d be done in no time! All we had to do was fill up the truck and sweep up the floors. THAT’S IT.

That was incorrect. As we Tetris’d our belongings into the moving truck, it became apparent there was much more to do. I uncovered what felt like whole rooms of things that still needed to be boxed up, including almost all of our breakables. I held off on buying packing supplies specifically for dishes and stemware for gods know what reason, and I ended up stuck using napkins and extra blankets to buoy the most fragile things we owned. (Spoiler alert: NOTHING FRAGILE ENDED UP BREAKING SO YOU CAN FUCK RIGHT OFF, UHAUL, WITH YOUR $20 DISH KIT!)

When evening came I was beginning to crack ever so slightly. I could feel a hot rage boiling beneath the surface, pricking at my skin, begging to be released, the sight of cardboard boxes and tufts of cat hair long hidden under furniture inciting a primordial ire in want of release. But Husband quelled it without even knowing it: “I have a proposition,” he said.

We just don’t move and stay here, jobless and miserable until we die and the cats devour our corpses sans remorse? I asked, but only in my head.

“Why don’t we just leave on Thursday instead?”

“I love you.”

It was the perfect Valentine’s Day present, and it didn’t even feel like defeat, just like an admission that our goals were too lofty. And too-lofty goals aren’t the worst thing. It felt much like being ahead of the game, like “O, wow, I have just been handed an extra day to do with whatever I want!” And I went to bed that night very happy, lulling myself into another false sense of security. I did not learn, Dear Reader, and that was my first mistake.