Six days of schizophrenic living lie ahead.
Come Monday, when I get the keys, I’ll be bouncing between my current place and the new one.
The reason has more to do with a bathtub than peculiarities of this move: repeated Subaru-loads of boxes.
Since the new place is only a half-mile away and I’m currently without a day job, I decided it’s easier and cheaper to (again) do the move myself in increments rather than one fell swoop with hired hand and pickup truck.
Don’t misunderstand. I do need the help. I’ve got a queen-sized dense memory foam bed that weighs a ton! I exaggerate. It’s friggin’ heavy and a 2-man job to move. Three men if they’re scrawny wimps. All that’s another post.
I also need to make this move very gingerly and carefully due to shoulder, neck and back injuries. Ongoing healing treatments are effective though slow (understandable due to the extent and severity of the damage).
A misstep or misturn or simply too much weight for, say, the damaged shoulder could produce a huge setback or, worse, further injury.
There’s a part of me that wishes I could hand the entire move over to a couple responsible hardworking guys for one reason alone: to preserve the integrity of healing that’s taken place.
On the other hand, I’m just too damn independent … programmed too deeply to need no help and do EVERYTHING on my own (father issues) … too pragmatic as in “I can do it on my own, even if it’s painful, I literally can still do it” … and last but not least too accomplished at doing it on my own.
Which is to say I’ve made dozens of moves with little to usually no help from anyone. All that heavy lifting and overloads, it’s what I do and have done since childhood. My father was a slavedriver and quite cruel with no concept of the weights and burdens appropriate to a small girl (pint-sized stature and weight).
Those deep unresolved painful father issues are still with me, making me both the incredibly strong and fiercely independent girl that I am AND the injured girl that I am today. Truly is his harsh relentless training/programming that laid the groundwork for a lifetime of needing no help and refusing help and being forced to do EVERYTHING on my own.
Some 57 years later, I see it in the way I move — physically, with damaged bones, the very structure and foundation of the human body, and in relocating.
But I digress.
Six days of schizophrenic living.
Since I’m paid up at my current place to Nov. 30 and in the new place Monday (the double-rent thang), I’ve got six days to clear out bed and boxes. Six days for a move in increments. Six days of duo residences. Six days of transition. Six days for nice hot baths.
The next place, you see, doesn’t have a bathtub. And I’m a huuuuuuuuuuuuuge baths person. Huuuge. They’re as fundamental to my health, healing and rejuvenation as water and air.
My inner Ms. McGyver is already on it to create a baths apparatus in the next place. In the meantime, I’ll continue my long hot soaks in my current wonderful porcelain tub for long as I’ve got access. Come Nov. 30, bye-bye tub.
I can see it now. An emptied apartment. Everything sparkly cleaned. There’s just that ooooone thing I can’t give up, that oooonnnne thing I love and cling to and will miss dearly: an amazing tub.
So yep, six days of schizophrenic living, bouncing and perhaps sleeping between two residences, all because of a bathtub!
Allelujah, Arizona! 