I am in the process of packing up my apartment.
Of course, books must be dealt with first. For the uninitiated, this does not mean that I load all my books into a couple giant boxes. Because that is a path of madness leading straight to split cardboard and broken backs. No, books need to be spread out among multiple carriers. And this needs to be a priority. Otherwise things can go to a very dark place.
You see, I go through five distinct stages when I prepare for a move.
I am meticulous. Everything is beautifully organized. The boxes make complete sense. Items separated by room in which they belong. A symphony of compartmentalized perfection. I am invincible. A packing god. You may take a moment to bow. I’ll wait.
Not feeling quite so divine. But that’s okay. I’ve always been fond of the whole being human thing. And all my belongings are still pretty orderly. Sure, there might be some kitchen hand towels in the box with bathroom hand towels, but that’s not the end of the world. Probably.
Man, packing takes a long time. When did I get so much stuff? This can’t all be mine. What should I label this stupid box? “Books/Linens/Snuggie/Mugs(2)/Light bulb/Avenger Chibis.” Yeah, that’s perfect. You know, labeling everything “Misc.” is just more efficient. Why was I wasting all that time before? Just get all of it in boxes. Then maybe a nap.
You know what? If it doesn’t fit in a box, throw it out. I don’t need all this crap.
Not already in a box? Fine. Setting you on fire. Done and done. Where the hell did I pack the damn matches?
There’s always a moment while I’m heating my hands by the pretty flames when I wonder if perhaps I’ve been a wee bit rash.
I feel a rush of panic, but then I remember all the books were packed by Stage Three. Relief warms my heart even as the bonfire formally known as my possessions warms the room.
Books are safe.
Everything else is expendable.
Reason number one to always pack books first.
And it’s totally not my fault if Roomie left some of her stuff in the blaze path.
That’s on her.