Moving should be easy. You should burn everything you owned before, buy a plane ticket, and get brand new, shiny things for the new place. This would be ideal. It would be simple and concise. But moving isn't mechanical. Moving is stressful and emotional. It's not a process with a clear beginning and end.
Moving makes its first real impact on your junk. This is stuff you keep on the counter, on the dining table, or maybe in a drawer. I don't want to give up that crap. What if I need fifty twist-ties? What if I finally learn to use chopsticks? It would be a personal failure on my part not to keep these things. Logistically, however, there is no room for crap. Boxes fill with dishes and photos, and you try to pack the junk where there's room, but it quickly becomes clear that you must part. The crap cannot come along on your big move.
Moving also demands that you clean your house once it's empty. This is awful. There are places in my house that I haven't seen since I moved in. I'm not sure we always had a linen closet. It's possible that it grew like an entrance to Narnia, but since I found a vacuum in there, I might as well use it. Cleaning is a gradual process--I thought if I cleaned lightly and repeatedly, it might be the same as deep cleaning. It was not.
You leave behind your clean house for some new tenant after realizing that you have been misusing the space the whole time. You feel better thinking that you will move someplace significantly more awesome and spacious. You scour the internet for new houses and they look fantastic. Every one of them is big, new, and cheap. What a lucky world. Upon visiting these magnificent finds, you realize each of them to be a sadder, aged version of their internet selves. You sift through the options until one is less terrible than the rest and sign the papers immediately, ensuring you are the resident of this not-so-terrible home. Congratulations.
There are still exciting parts about moving. There are still adventures. There are mundane questions like, "Where do I buy groceries?" "What is the fastest route to work?" "Do alligators live in the lake outside my balcony?" There are also bigger questions. If I am in a new place, am I a new me? Should I recreate the same identity for myself? Should I get the same kind of job? Should I go to school? Who will I be in this new house? The opportunities are endless and thrilling.
Yet I miss the comfort of the familiar. I still wonder what alternate-universe-me is doing at the same old house with the mystery closet as yet undiscovered. Is she happy? More importantly, is she happier than me? Am I a better version of myself in this new place? Why didn't I bring my twist-ties?
