I moved and I didn’t want to, but it was beyond my control. It’s traumatic, moving, even though that is all I do it seems, these days. My entire life is putting things that I might need and usually never use haphazardly into bags and boxes and sending them on to the next place. Everything has the wear of travel on it, skid and scuff, paint chipped, rips and residue of temporary residence.
I picked a nice place, and it had to be, because I loved my other digs, and will miss the many wonderful dogs I greeted every day in the halls who learned to sniff under my door and beg for me to come out. It was one of those fast moves, which I have become known for. Sometimes I come home and it’s suddenly intolerable, the walls close in on me, the lights burn my skin, and I am calling the realtor to get out of a lease, holding the iphone far enough from my face to keep from hanging up accidentally. When you live in five or six cities a year, you will recognize how a living space can feel intense and ugly as an acid bath. I have no patience and I cannot rest until I make it better, until I make a change.
My friend helped me load ridiculously expensive shoes into slightly odorous garbage bags, scenting british boots so fancy they required their own special visas to stay in the country, as if they were taking jobs from all the shoes here. All my fancy socks from brick lane, tethered together with twine, tissue between them to keep them from touching, went into the bags along with half full travel size tubes of sensodyne, cookies ‘n’ crème protein powder and sheets of frozen cake along with every charger for every electrical device I have owned in the last decade.
We moved instead of going to the gym, reappropriating the time for physical fitness and doing actual physical labor. I hefted everything and moved and hung up and folded and arranged everything so quickly I became clumsy. The new closet door, with dimensions altogether unfamiliar, slammed right into my face, thumping my left eye socket. It might be a black eye. The future of this eye is uncertain. It thrums with pain underneath at blinks, my Porsche sunglasses resting directly on the source of the dull pain and reassuring me with its presence.