Sucks.
It's not the physical pack-the-boxes stuff that bothers me. While not nearly as fun as a trip to LYS with a pocketful of cash, over the years I have perfected a system for this whole moving-to-a-new-house thing. Armed with sharpies, glue sticks, and a quarter million white note cards, I label every-single-box. The movers, when we have them, aren't allowed to tape a box closed until it has a white card on it. That way I can label the box properly, and include not the room where the item came from, but where it Belongs. It makes the un-packing process easier, and I always know which box has my underwear and which box has my 9x9 baking pan. Which boxes I need to work on Now, and which boxes can be left until I get around to them.
But oh, the Moving. I do hate it so.
While my husband is like english ivy, fraught with wander-lust and always seeking out new places to go, I'm more like a maple tree. I like the view from where I'm at, and could happily stay in one place forever. I already know the crappy things about our current Local Area, and the good things. I really, really like my neighbors and my neighborhood. And I really, really dislike change.
Soon the movers will come and take all my stuff and drive away. Soon my house will have a For Sale sign, and then we'll take it down.
Soon I will have to drive away too, to new neighbors that I might not like, to a new Local Area that has crappy things and good things, and I don't know what they are. Maybe one of the Good things there is one of the Not Good things from here. Or maybe not. I'll figure it out eventually, I'll have to... and I'll probably start to really enjoy the view from where I'm at right before the movers come again.
