On the move

There are a thousand things to do. Maybe a hundred. Who knows for sure? Numbers aren’t terribly important. All that is relevant is their nefarious purpose—to damage my calm.

I’m not a nomadic sort. I prefer stabilization—perhaps to a fault. I’m a cluttered guy. I have piles. I know bills and a general period of recent purchases are in said area yonder, while statements and reports are in this conglomeration. Every so often I sort and file; but with life happening, who wants to stare at numbers? I mean, most of these things are paid for already, with the statements and bills for record purposes only. So they sit, keeping their data for me just as well on my table as in my filing cabinet.

So that, coupled with my general preference for staying put, means moving time is a grate on the nerves. I downright dislike it, in all honesty. Hard to “hate” moving—such an overused word, “hate”; but I definitely would like to wake up and be in my new locale already.

Thus, all of these preparations, appointments and clearing procedures for me to exit my current post is a drag. My normally table-bound piles are now accosting my remaining floorspace, already at a premium due to my ongoing inventory of Army equipment I’m required to turn in. Straps and tents and body armor and sleeping bags, bills, books, and yesterday’s WalMart non-perishables make for a hop skip to the bathroom, rather than the normal stroll.

Thursday come the movers and I’ll be left with naught but a couple of cushions and cleaning stuffs for the weekend. I’ll have the laptop—my only conveyance to entertainment for the coming few weeks, apart from the normal load of books and introspection.

Moving tends to be a necessary evil in our time, with all the comings and goings of young professionals, global careers and general ambition. Still, I suppose I prefer a contrast to my younger years of periodic moves during my tenure as a Navy brat and hope for a season of general kinetic calm, so far as my possessions and piles of crap are concerned.

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