A brief and profane essay on moving

It's taken until now to get "moved in." I started in June. I found the Doc Marten today, in December.

As soon as I found out, in May, that the mortgage was approved, that my closing day was set, I started with strapping tape and sharpie markers and cheerful ambition. I packed books and out-of-season clothes and dishes I use only occasionally, neatly wrapped and appropriately labeled. I ended in July with my sister and me humping boxes and tubs down the apartment building stairs (no elevator, of course) in the dark hours of the night like a couple of criminals on the run, sweating and swearing. Of course by that time we had approached van load 8,645 to the house, and were simply exiting with plastic tubs full of random crap--tubes of hand lotion, a handful of orphaned socks, a stack of unmatched Tupperware lids, and a basket of cleaning supplies from under the kitchen sink.

It was at this time the Doc Marten went MIA. One of a pair of thick-soled maryjanes, my go-to basic black winter shoe. It went out of the apartment in one of those aforementioned random assortments of crap, and was never seen again.

Doc Marten: missing in action. It went in-country. Well, more like in-carton.

I noticed it missing when I was getting out the fall/winter shoes in September. Leave it to me to lose one half of a $100 pair of shoes. Why couldn't I have lost a flip-flop? No, no, I have to really lose where it hurts. It turned up, today, in a box of infant clothes, which I likely may never have opened again, my ovaries being on permanent hiatus. I just happened to be sorting boxes in the right closet, karma met destiny met Doc Marten.

My move was complicated by multiple locations. I had to move what was left of my belongings out of my former home; I had to move from my apartment; and, I had to move stuff I'd stored at my mother's house (thankfully, in the same town). At any one point I had my Man Friend, some girl friends, a random assortment of Guy People from work and from around, my mom, my sister, and my son, making a few trips up and down the stairs (did I mention no elevator? I want you to know. Because we suffered).

Here's the top five things I learned from moving:

1. I'm not moving again. They are either carrying me out feet first, or dragging me out by my hair.
2. I'm not a saver; I'm more of a thrower. And I just divided up belongings in a divorce (I was heartbroken to leave the beer stein collection behind. Heartbroken, I tell you). You'd think I'd be traveling pretty lean. Nope. What I learned about myself is that, like every other American:

Truer words were never spoken.

3. If your Man Friend's Best Friend is nice enough to help you move, it's best not to crush said friend's spleen with your sofa.

4. It isn't going to fit. It isn't going to fit in that van load, it isn't going to fit in your front door, and it isn't going to fit in that dining nook just like you pictured. Forget it.

5. If you didn't label the box when you moved, and you didn't unpack it in the first three weeks, and you still haven't looked in it, you probably don't need it. Except for that missing Doc Marten.