Rrrgh -- the only place I can blog anymore is the local library, and I can only visit it either during my lunch hour or after work; and by the time I arrive after work, the four computers are occupied by teenagers playing video games, and the wait period is long; so my best option (because I have been feeling like I will DIE if I do not get to blog) is to write during my lunch break, when I'm hungry. So if this post sounds spacey or my thoughts run disjointedly together, it's the low blood sugar talking.
I move in approximately ten days. This weekend the most unpleasant aspect of the process took place, which was informing Meg and Phillip; and then I spent most of the rest of the weekend at their house. (Josie is SO CUTE, by the way. Oh. My. Gosh.)
Sunday night I accompanied them for dinner at Phillip's mom's house -- Sandy lives with her sister Chris (Phillip's aunt) and Chris's two sons, aged 15 and 11. The older son, T., is probably destined for a life on the lam; the younger son, L., has more hope, and is kind of adorable in his chubby pre-adolescent attention-seeking way.
When I sat down to eat, T. had already skulked off to destinations unknown (although I saw him lurking hopefully in the yard before I went inside, while I was on the phone); and Sandy and Chris told me how much they'd miss me and how sad it was that I'm leaving, although they understood all my reasons; Sandy said, "You'll have to come back to visit lots!" and Chris chimed in, "Yeah, T. will miss you. He spent the first half hour of the visit asking, 'Is Sarah here? Is Sarah here?'"
I laughed. And then L. spent the evening throwing toys at me and grinning and blushing.
Boys...
And then today as I walked down the street to fetch the office mail, the guys at the sharpening shop across the street hailed me and asked about my moving timetable. Randy (so appropriately named) asked me when I'm going to go out with them and party.
"The last Friday night?" he said.
"Nope. My parents will be here."
"Thursday night?"
"Nope. I'm not packing hungover."
"Wednesday night?"
"Nope."
"This Friday night?"
"Well, you get points for trying," I said, "but no thank you."
Jeremy laughed.
Randy looked a little stunned. He in particular has made outrageously suggestive comments consistently throughout the past two years I've worked here. But some traditions -- such as my slapping him down -- really shouldn't change just because I'm leaving.
There are instances, of course, when joking rivalries and enmities should be put aside at the conclusion of a time spent in the same place -- a hug between college nemeses at graduation, for example. But there are other times, like this one, where I see no reason in giving this manner of interrelating -- however lighthearted and fun (notice I'm not saying "innocent") -- any opportunity for one last try before the good small town girl goes back home. They're good guys; they've bailed me out of snowbound driveways and overgrown yards and blown headlights; but I've taken care that everything except the one replaced headlight received a monetary compensation, and I've turned them down for a lot of the help they've offered. I don't like to "owe" people -- especially not significantly older, shameless men who like to stand two feet into my personal space just to see if I'll back up.
I'll miss their jocularity, of course; going to the Post Office has been anything but boring, these last two years. But part of the fun of our interactions has been my aloofness. I know it drives them crazy. They always try. I always turn them down. It's part of the course of nature, like gravity or nuclear radiation or photosynthesis. Who am I to disrupt the order of things?
In the meantime, there is more packing than a gal knows what to do with. And the more I get done, the more I can't wait to get out of The State of Denmark. The past month has been wet and rainy beyond belief, and that house has never been dry; now everything is starting to reek of mildew and it's profoundly irritating.
The hilariously horrible thing about packing, though, is that I keep thinking, "I'll put in that movie tonight while I work," or, "I'll listen to that CD," inevitably followed by, "...oh. I packed it."
It would be one thing if this only happened once. But it happens over and over, like the time every power grid went out in the Tri-State area (PA, New York and Ohio) a few years ago and my sister and I spent the hot summer afternoon saying to each other, "I'm bored. Wanna watch a movie?" "Yeah! Oh. We can't. Power's out." "Hm. Well, wanna play a video game?" "Yeah! Oh. We can't. Power's out." All afternoon.
4 comments:
Ahhhh, may the force be with you. You know the scene where Harry Potter breaks into the Lestranges' Gringotts vault and the bling keeps multiplying every time he touches it? That's what happened to me when I moved.
And yet the feeling of starting over in a clutter-less, mildew-free environment? Priceless.
Ohhh man, I so know how that goes. I look at all my possessions that have somehow ACCUMULATED AND ACCUMULATED even over the past year, and at all the things I have unearthed that I'd completely forgotten about owning, and think, "So THIS is what Thoreau meant. Um."
And I'm only one person.
So I'm going to attempt something which I have never attempted before: Throw things away. (Gasp.) Lighten the load.
After all, I'm footloose and fancy-free; as I was telling one of the postal workers this afternoon as we discussed the economy and the increasing burdens on us lower middle class workers, "I don't own a house. I don't have kids. If worst came to worst, I could sell or throw away everything I own, don a backpack and start walking, live a total hobo life. I probably won't, because that sounds cold, but I COULD."
But not with ten thousand pounds of belongings weighing me down.
And oy, and hallelujah, mildew-free! This I look forward to in increasing measure.
I LOVE starting over and setting up house somewhere new, seeing what kind of HOME I can make out of however many walls enclose me. My living space is my sanctuary, and I anticipate greatly new stretches of unblemished walls in which to pound dozens of holes. Like a field of new, unbroken snow begging for tromping feet and snow angels.
I like moving.
When did you move? New apartment, new city, new state? I haven't talked to you in FOREVER.
Thoreau: yes, him too. I was thinking "Burning The Christmas Greens." If only. When I moved I must have come up with twelve or fifteen 30-gallon bags of pure garbage. Where did I keep it all? And WHY?
Same city, same state, but I ditched the glorified dorm room for a much less embarrassing apartment. Six months later, it's starting to look almost domestic! Progress!
...which is not to disparage the charms of the hobo life. After a long lapse in communication, Anne H. once assured me that she had not wound up living in a ditch, although, she mused, "that would have provided splendid material for a memoir to be titled 'My Life In A Ditch.'"
It's like you want a nice delicate balance between charming domesticity and rugged hoboism. The ragged traveler who, of an evening, returns to her clean, well-lighted room and dons fuzzy jammies and slippers and drinks mint tea amidst a forest of twinkly candles.
But then, that's kind of what Thoreau did, isn't it?
I'd love to read "My Life in a Ditch." But only if it has a happy ending. :)
Post a Comment