Glass case of emotion (the move)
As of Monday night, Clayton and I are officially moved out of our old apartment and (mostly) settled into our new townhouse. Initially we had plans to paint our old apartment back to boring white (we painted our bedroom walls various shades of charcoal. It was amazing, I’m not gonna lie), but thanks to having to work, leave town for a funeral, turn around and leave town again for a wedding, we were just completely out of time. And, adding insult to injury, we learned that the only way we could paint our old apartment back was by driving to a city 30 minutes away and buying a “special” shade of white for $25 a gallon. By Monday night, we were over it. Take it out of our deposit; we no longer care.
I moved several times in my life and I have to say, this was one of the worst moves by far. First of all, I was painfully OCD about wrapping each and every dish, wine glass, candleholder and knick-knack in paper in an effort to prevent myself from having a nuclear meltdown should anything get broken or scratched. However, I knew that there was not a piece of newspaper big enough to wrap our beloved bedframe (a wedding gift from my mother), and I was fretting about moving it from point A to point B without any damage. Slowly we moved each piece of the bedframe down to the waiting truck and had the brilliant idea to wrap the pieces in the various blankets we have strew about our apartment (my toesies are always cold). So we got the bed into our new bedroom without incident. My shoulders sagged in relief.
However, at some point during the 12 hours we left the bed unesmbled, vicious little destruction elves must have came in through the window because once we had the bed put together I noticed a monstrous scratch in one of the bed posts.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t start crying.
I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t start crying when Clayton and my brother-in-law had to take the stair railing off the wall in order to get our 300-pound treadmill up the staircase and into the spare room … but not before they scratched the dickens out of the treadmill and took paint off the wall trying to force it up the small stairwell. As I watched in horror as the two boys struggled with the beasty piece of machinery, Clayton kept muttering about how it was my fault because I just “had to have the treadmill upstairs”. I wasn’t upset with them for scratching up my treadmill, not at all. I appreciate all of their effort because it was NOT an easy task lugging that thing anywhere and am very grateful to my bro-in-law for taking time out of his day to come help us. I started crying because we were exhausted from moving by ourselves for 10 hours, we hadn’t eaten since the day before, nothing was going right, and the treadmill we spent a lot of money on and had only used minimally was now dented and scratched. And on top of everything else, I felt like a bad guy for wanting to have the treadmill in the spare bedroom in the first place.
I was in a glass case of emotion.
Perhaps I was feeling so frazzled and stressed by the time we started hauling in the treadmill because oh, I don’t know, OUR MATTRESSES BLEW OFF OF THE TRUCK AND ONTO THE HIGHWAY EARLIER THAT DAY.
Yes, that’s right. The mattresses that we were so sure were securely nestled into the bed of Clayton’s grandfather’s truck so obviously were not. The distance to our new place from our old apartment is maybe a half of a mile at most, but that didn’t stop our mattresses from taking flight and becoming air borne right in the middle of 5 o’clock traffic. Unfortunately, Clay was by himself at the time had the misfortune of plucking our now filthy mattress off of 2nd Street in front of God and the entire west side of Bloomington.
But I think the most exasperating part of the whole move is my new kitchen. I was so surprised at the lack of room in there that you’d think I’d never seen it before in my life. I guess when you’re in the thick of excitement while looking at potential new homes, you kind of overlook basic things, like making sure your kitchen can store all of your kitchen stuff (and trust me, I have a lot of it). I knew the kitchen was dinky in comparison to what I’d had before, but it had a large pantry completely very much unlike what I had before. So I thought it would be okay. But I guess I forgot to take into account that a smaller kitchen means less cabinet space which means more stuff is going to have to be stored in the pantry.
My Kitchen Aid mixer is sitting on top of the refrigerator rather than being displayed in all of its kitcheny, mixy glory on the counter. Don’t even get me started on the lack of counter space. I’m going to have to roll dough on the floor.
Yeah, that made me cry, too.
But my husband, my loving, wonderful husband, drove out to the hardware store and bought materials to build me two extra shelves in the pantry. Now everything has a place. It’s cramped, but cozy. The tiny dishwasher and sink will force us to do dishes more frequently, which can only be seen as a positive. Our tiny kitchen is a small price to pay for having a larger space to live in overall. I can live with it … at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
But our living room looks fabulous. Sure, the amazing DVD tower I bought at Big Lots ended up being a lot less sturdy than I had hoped, but we now have our billions of DVDs proudly displayed for all to see rather than tucked away in a binder because we had no place to store all of the cases.
And a big perk to the new townhouse is that not only do we have large closets, our master bedroom has TWO large closets. That’s right—a his and hers! While they are not like the giant walk-in closet that could fit a small family of 3 that I used to have, these separate closets are incredibly spacious and I firmly believe that the couple who’s clothes aren’t stored together, stays together.
Same goes for the second bathroom. Clay’s beard hairs trapped in the sink are now out of sight, out of mind. I will just occasionally toss him a cleaning rag and ask him to clean it up because I sure as heck will not anymore.
So those are basically the ill-fated highlights from our move. It only took us 6 days to finally be out of our old place and have all of our stuff moved (although not all put away) into the townhouse. The only other event worth mentioning was on Monday night when Clay and I had to lug our washer out of the old apartment because we couldn’t sell it. It was far heavier than we anticipated, and it more or less popped the wheels on the dolly we were using. So once we finally had the washer at the top of the stairs to take down to the truck, we realized that we had to just push it down, one step at a time. Can I please remind you that it was almost 11 o’clock on a weeknight? There are 23 stairs on that staircase and I know this because the washer went crashing down on a stair 23 different times before it successfully came to rest at the bottom. Each thud of the washer hitting the next step sounded like a million atomic bombs going off and I was giggling like an idiot because I was nervous about getting in trouble and apparently I find disturbing the peace wildly hilarious. Not to mention there was still water in the connecting hose from the last time we washed clothes and that water came shooting out of the hose a little harder with every THUNK! of the washer.
In other news, I have another guest post up at the Perspectives running blog. I was asked to write a before and after post about the upcoming Indianapolis Monumental Half Marathon. Today’s post is my “before” and discusses my feelings and fears before the race (a heavy theme of my post being how I’m NOT as anxious as I was for my previous races which is mildly hilarious because I started panicking about the mini last night and was all like, “Thank goodness I wrote that post prior to this meltdown!” Oh … me.). Next week I will have my “after” post and recap how the race went, if I finished, or if I passed out and was left for dead.
Check it out! Click here.