Boxes

For the first time in my life, I attacked moving day piecemeal. It started over a week ago, with me begging the Trader Joe's produce guy for box leftovers and carting a load from Mystic to Central via NHS. Last Sunday meant packing books. Turns out I have a lot of books. Wednesday was a vigorous blitz thanks to Matt and son, other Matt, and my roomies; one of the Matts produced a moving-day miracle by squeezing a couch, a bookshelf, and my full-sized bed onto his truck! And today, after a night on a mattress wedged between the kitchen sink and the trash can full of decomposing Russo vegetables I had stoically committed to eating before moving, I finally moved in to my new apartment in Central Square. The move is a simultaneous testament to my distance from real life (e.g., I will be sharing a bathroom with 3 other girls, my bed is tucked into a corner instead of dominating the center, I still don't have matching furniture) and my hoarding likely-to-be-a-cat-lady-at-40 tendencies (e.g., brought over to new apartment two sets of old running shoe in-soles that I haven't used for 2+ years, hung a sweater that I haven't worn in two years in the closet, and can't bring self to discard lit books from grad school that I hated and never want to read again). Perhaps the Bedouins have it right--move often enough that instead of two walls touching your bed you have four walls made of canvas, and instead of excess, you keep just enough for food, shelter, and the occasional anti-coyote spray--no boxes required. But until that day of freedom wandering the Israeli desert, I send you greetings from Central Square!