I am very good at moving.
I am bad at packing. I always do it last-minute and there is inevitably some scrap of clothing or power cord that gets left behind in my haste. I am not very strong so the actual act of moving things, lugging them from one place to another, exhausts me. Similarly, finding a new place leaves me weary and wounded. But still, I’ve done it so much that I’ve got to be good at it by now, right?
I moved a lot as a child as my parents grabbed opportunities and moved us when we were young to new places. Virginia, Utah, the Bay Area, Los Angeles. There were new schools and new people in every one. Then after school, feeling unsettled, I found myself trying to find my place in the world. This is when I truly found how good I am at moving — at settling into a new place and making it a home of sorts. After a few failed experiments — Los Angeles, Atlanta, Dublin — I’ve found myself in New York. It has been a great success. A true fit! I love it here and feel more at home here than I have ever felt in my life. But New York is fickle and the rental market here is even moreso. After under a year at my new apartment (a wonderful apartment with a truly wonderful roommate and two very wonderful cats), we are being forced to say goodbye.
They’ve sold our building and the two buildings next to us. As terms of the agreement, we are each being kicked out at the end of our lease.
The tenants are fighting but the law is obviously on the side of the owners. It’s sad, and gross, and painful.
And so even though I am very good at moving, I am exhausted and sad to think that I have to do it again.