Everything is put away.
A friend rolls her eyes. I don’t know what to think of you taking two months to unpack. She rolls her eyes with kind exasperation. She later reports that, unlike others, my bullshit is at least consistent. I take comfort in any constancy. It’s nice to be true to yourself.
Why did it take so long? Before carpooling I would get home after seven, whereupon I would eat, spend some time with the cat, write in this blog and on other projects, then, wow, time for bed. Friends call and I want to talk to them, more desperately at first, now for connection’s fundamental pleasure. I have class until I don’t, consuming Tuesday. Dinner with friends or new prospects, therapy appointments. Lists on the weekends that include unpacking, but in several weekends I unpack only a few boxes. It’s a lot of work, somehow. Everything needs to go somewhere but neither of us knows where that is.
Part of me wants them back. They’ve been here for the two-plus months I’ve lived here, constant and solid. They aren’t in the way. They’re more furniture than the furniture.The cat likes clambering over the uneven stacks, digging down into the ones that sit dogeared open.
Two UHaul boxes from Jen are too battered to serve again, barely holding together this time more from the structure provided by square books for the packing tape to bind inward against. Solid cardboard has worn away to the skin of old fruit, soft without plushness and yielding when you press. They go to their rest.
I think it took so long because it takes a while for what I am reluctant to have come out to dissipate. Like wine or a new refrigerator, things need time to acclimate. But I agree: next time should be faster, yes. Things are still messy, but not too messy. Order is implicit in everything’s presence.
I am told there’s nothing wrong, but I need assistance with my decor. No, don’t put those pictures there, they don’t go together. Don’t mop a wood floor with so much water. It’s nice to have a professional around.