We are in a state of perpetual moving. This is not unlike a state of perpetual motion, except it’s also not like it. By last night, we both had a thousand mile stare and were beginning to just shove random shit into boxes. Somehow, despite doing this fifty billion times, there kept being more stuff. The house looked like a pack of 3 year olds had run through strewing junk everywhere. There was little room to manuever around the boxes.
Today, two nice men came and took all the packed stuff away from one house to another. I felt so guilty letting them do all the work that I had to paint the downstairs bathroom. When I was done with that, the new house was strewn with boxes, none of which I could even start to unload, because it is not until tomorrow morning that the other nice men come to put down a new carpet in Young Indiana’s freshly-painted room, nor until tomorrow afternoon thhat still other nice men come to put a shed in the back garden so we can store the owner’s crap that we don’t need and, please be to grod, some of our own crap. That we presumably don’t need, if it’s being stored, but nevermind that.
So I really couldn’t start unpacking because there’s too much stuff in the way or things can’t be put in the right room, making it all an exercise in existential despair. Instead I came home to start cleaning and putting the remaining small stuff into boxes, both of which happened but not to a totally complete and satisfactory degree.
We are entirely wrecked, and tomorrow is really just more moving, cleaning and packing. I have comparatively little confidence that any meaningful unpacking will happen. Gah.