Eight Days
I am moving in eight days. Yes, count them. They are few. Eight.
I have packed ... nothing. Absolutely nothing. On one level, I have just totally not accepted the moving thing. I am comfortable here. My stuff is comfortable here. Why mess with it? To change this would be ridiculous, illogical. Therefore, it is not happening.
And on the accepting-level of myself, I am ignoring it. Good plan.
Course, part of the panic is coming from the fact that this move is going to take something like a month to complete. I am moving not once, but twice at the same time: to New House (which will never really be my house, it's true) and to the very cool apartment that Carly and I will be sharing this year. And since New House is currently New, Totally Unfinished and Unfit for Human Habitation House, and the family belongings will be staying locked away inside a moving truck for lord-only-knows-how-long, anything that I will need for school, for the new apartment and for Torcon must be packed now and packed separately. This task is too big. I work all day. How can I think about this task, never mind complete it?
And because of my work and need for tuition money, I cannot move to my cottage for a few weeks like the rest of my family is planning to do. And new apartment will not be ready until the end of August, which means that I have to find somewhere else close to live for a few weeks.
Ah, what are friends for?
