Pressure

The facts:

The new apartment is thankfully as large as remembered.

This week is going to suck hard. This week will be packing, packing, walking eleven blocks north with bags, packing, ulcers, packing, walking up stairs with boxes, lifting things, ulcers, packing and packing.

My most loathed thing in the world, packing under pressure, is even more loathsome when combined with relocating under pressure. I hope hope hope that I don't have to move for another five years, which means that I hope hope hope I don't lose my job ever.

I don't have any boxes yet.

I will have boxes tomorrow, but I want them now. And I want to put sheet music and books and DVD's and unbreakable wine glasses and candles and other nonessentials in them now.

The piano movers didn't call me back.

Moving from a small apartment is pure insanity because where on earth am I supposed to put packed boxes as they accumulate? Where?! And how will the piano be moved out when there are boxes in its way? How!?

I am extremely skilled, apparently, at hiding things. Thus far I have packed only what was hidden underneath the bed and behind things and in one shelved corner of the closet and already there is a gigantic pile of things to be moved. Apparently I am more of a hider than a minimalist. I do have many, many, many pairs of shoes.

I haven't had a good night's sleep in two weeks. I most certainly won't have one this week.

I cannot wait until next Sunday.

I have to call my landlord tomorrow and figure out just how this is going to work.

I can't find my collection of Super Balls and I really need them now.

Exposing brick isn't as easy as he said it would be.

I'm glad that they didn't have pretty contact paper.

I am suddenly obsessed with tiling.

I am thrilled that he's being flexible.

I am even more thrilled that he's listening and allowing me to experience stress.

I need sleep.

I feel immense guilt when I move, because I organize a bunch of people to move my things while I sit around being the small, useless director. Were I moving alone I'd hire those guys from Craigslist again, who were miracle-workers, but boys will be boys and think they can do everything by themselves so who am I to interfere and spend money when certain people want to torture themselves? "Not even you can carry a couch by yourself!" said I, to which he responsed "No, well, not couches..." "But 70 boxes? You want to carry 70 boxes yourself?" "I can do it." "But you don't have to." Not that he has to, because people will help, but damn it went smooth last time with those guys from Craigslist.

When he puts his screwdriver and other misc. tools in the pocket of his jeans I know that this is a great decision.

The last minute things are what cause the stress. You can't pack all your forks and plates and your toaster oven and microwave and toothbrush and hairdryer because you need them up until the last minute. I know, overnight bag, but still. I want it to be packed now and magically transported to the new apartment so I can start living there tomorrow. And if they're going to be magically transported, they might as well be magically packed as well or not packed at all and just teleported into well-designed spaces in the new apartment.

I am excited for the party on Friday but we are moving on Saturday morning! Is this not insane? Should we not be last-minute packing or, better yet, sleeping lots?

Did I mention I'm concerned about the piano?

And the double rent?

And the packing? Did I mention the packing?

Oh my poor, poor stomach.