It's Only Mine Because It Holds My Suitcase

As the date moves closer, I get more and more excited about moving. I think about all the good things that will come out of this change in my life. Less of a rotating cast of roommates. Being able to come and go as I please and have people over without wondering who will be home, who I'll be disturbing, who the hell ate my last yogurt because, oh yeah, it was me. I'm almost twenty-five, and I haven't lived alone since the one glorious month at URI when I didn't have a roommate. Despite my irrational fear of choking without anyone to help me, I'm excited.

I am not excited about packing, however. I hate scrounging at every store I visit for boxes. I hate the plastic stretchy sound of packing tape. I hate the echo that creeps into my room as my framed pictures come off the walls, my books end up in seemingly infinite piles of boxes, and my life is all disheveled. Where's my address book? Do I need to keep the 2004 Writer's Market, or should I spring for a new one once I've moved? Which back issues of Cosmo are essential to my survival, and which should be put on the curb? When should I start packing up my pans? Will lifting The Complete Calvin and Hobbes slip a disk?

I hate the lack of cohesiveness that comes with the last month or so in a place. I can't find anything, I have to put away clothes I'm certain I'll desperately need even though I haven't worn them in forever. I don't have time to go to the gym much this week, so I know I'm going to be antsy and have a hard time sleeping. I want to pack my dishes, so I'm going to have to eat out more than I want to, or buy a lot of prepared food. I'm going to spend a ton of money on gas this weekend since I have to drive a minivan down to Rhode Island with my winter gear in it since I don't have the storage space in my Subterranean Fortress of Solitude. (Also, it's supposed to be 84 degrees. My pasty ass is hitting the beach. If you see a girl glowing like Casper in a polka-dot bikini, that's me.)

But then I think about (hopefully) not having asshole neighbors, being able to have my friends over without bothering anybody, and not having anyone to blame but myself (and my yet-to-be-born cat) for the state of affairs, and it all seems worth it. Remind me of this when I'm eating pizza for the sixth consecutive night and complaining about the bloat.