The Move (Originally posted 10/22/16 on Facebook)

I originally posted this on Facebook, but I wanted to make sure I captured it on my blog as well.

So, I did something. I did something big. And I did it alone.

I bought a house this week. I went to sign papers at closing all by myself. The co-owner line was left blank on every page. I think this is the first time that I have been hit smack in the face with this new identity of mine. I’m single. I’m alone. (I know I have the support of all of you - but that’s not what I’m talking about here.)

Now, anyone who has known me for any length of time may remember that Jeff and I moved a lot. I mean A LOT. We moved 18 times in 25 years of marriage. 16 of those times were in the first 17 years of our relationship. We moved three times in 12 months around year ten. Moving was something Jeff and I did together. And we did it well.

We had a system. We could pack up a house, move, and unpack in 48 hours if we needed to. We had so many tips and tricks for moving, people suggested we write a book. We knew the best places to get boxes, the best way to pack a truck or a trailer, and the best places to get rid of old unwanted furniture. Moving was something Jeff and I did together.

Except this time. This time Jeff isn’t here to get boxes in the middle of the night from Walmart. He isn’t here to meticulously pack up his James Michener book collection. He isn’t here to color code the labels and stack the boxes in the garage. He isn’t here to drive the U-haul or pull a trailer. He isn’t here to help me manage my anxiety about moving and getting everything done. He isn’t here. I am alone and our system doesn’t work with just one person.

Some people have said to me things like, “The move will be good for you. A fresh start for you and the kids.” They may be right. But maybe part of me doesn’t want a “fresh start.” Maybe I want to be where I can still see him standing in the kitchen eating a peanut butter and banana sandwich over the sink. Maybe I want to be where I can still picture him on the couch, leaning forward, watching the U game, and complaining about the refs and announcers. Maybe I want to be where I can still imagine him yelling at all of us to quit turning the heat up (to 64 degrees - smh). Maybe I am scared to do this all by myself and I don’t want to move because I’m afraid I will feel more of my memories of him slipping away.

And maybe I know there really is no such thing as a “fresh start.” There is no starting over. There is a lot of carrying on, pushing through, and doing the best I can. But a fresh start? What does that even mean? I’ll be in a new place, a new neighborhood, but I take all of my literal and figurative baggage with me. In so many ways, this is NOT a fresh start. This move is just a small part of a much bigger change, just like so many other things this year. It’s part of my new normal.

I’m sure this is the first of many big things I’ll have to do alone over the next few years. I’m ok with that.

So, I have a new system for packing and moving. It’s not nearly as sophisticated as the system Jeff and I had together, but it works for my new normal. I’m hiring people to come do it for me. :)