Today we’ve been in our new apartment for three full weeks. It feels good to be almost completely unpacked and settled in. I know some of you want to see photos, and we’re almost there, really. There’s just one obstacle.
That box.
Or in our case, those boxes.
Having moved three times in two years, I’m very familiar with That Box. It’s the last box you pack, and the last one you want to unpack. It’s the content of the junk drawer or junk shelf or junk whatever you have, and you’re convinced in this new life in this new place, there’s no room for a junk drawer or whatever. But you need it. Because right now, you have a junk box. And a junk box is even uglier than a junk drawer.
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What’s worse than a junk box? Three junk boxes. One for each of three rooms. I’ve unpacked at least half of every one of these, and now I’m tempted to dump them all together into one. But I know eventually I’ll have to sort through them all again, which would be silly and a waste of time. As frustrating as it is to still not be completely unpacked, it just doesn’t make sense to mix the extra wall hooks with the extra toothpaste or the books I would put in a nightstand if I had one. It seems my sanity loses either way: either everything is jumbled together or I have to look at the clutter of a medium-sized Home Depot moving box in half the rooms of our new home. I know it could be worse, but it’s still kind of a bummer.
Since we moved, the kitchen table has functioned as a catchall for the random bits that are out of boxes but not yet in their places. As I type now, I realize this table is completely clear for the first time in weeks. Ah, it feels good to look up and see bare wood.
Until I look to my left. And see that I’ve created a junk top-of-the-microwave because we needed room for dinner with family tonight. I think junk top-of-the-microwave is even worse than a junk box or three, just for its stealthiness. I can look from the living room into the kitchen and think for a moment that things are cleaned up, but as my eyes swoop around the room . . . fail. Yet again.
John and I were talking about my birthday earlier. It’s just a week away. He asked if there was anything I wanted to do to celebrate. Is it lame to want help in cleaning up the junk? If it is, I don’t really think I care. Call me an old lady, call me over the hill in my mid-twenties. Let’s just get These Boxes out of here!
