Moving

Our house went on the market this morning, nearly two weeks to the day that we made the decision to sell. And we’ve already got four showings booked. Not bad, eh? While it seemed like an easy choice at first, practically a no-brainer, it became tougher and tougher as we lurched closer to our sell date to steel ourselves to the task at hand.

We got bogged down in conflicting schedules, the rigours of back breaking labour, illness and yes, unexpected sentimentality.

(We can’t move now. It’s right downtown. And so convenient. What’re we gonna do in the sticks? I love this place)

I admit. I got a little miffed when I had to put the bulk of my belongings in storage. Apparently, everything I own is repellent to potential female buyers.

That vintage Dawn of the Dead poster?

Gone.

My precious books?

Gone.

Clothes?

Gone.

Everything was hidden away to make the place seem larger, roomier, more inviting.

And then there was the endless cleaning, packing, and repacking.

One of my favourite sayings is ‘no matter how well a move is going, it’s never really going well.’

Well, this is like that. Only worse. Because this is the pre-pack. A lot of what we shipped out, is gonna have to come back in while we look for a new place of our own. And when we move? It’ll all have to be packed…AGAIN.

Bugger.

I can’t afford to be sentimental about this place. I can’t afford to think about how this home is the place where I met my wife and where we have lived together (for better or worse) for the past 4 years.

Or how soon, if they aren’t already, complete strangers are going to be tromping through halls (don’t they know I just vaccumed those?), looking in my cupboards and making judgement calls about our design choices. I know it’s not personal, they’re just looking for their own little piece of paradise.

But I happen to think it’s pretty perfect already.