With a swirly transition cut, let’s harken back to our previous lives in our Westchester condo townhouse.
It is March, 2011, and with great optimism we are pulling our car out of the garage thinking that, perhaps, 10 zillion inches of snow is enough for one winter.
We need to pull our car out of the garage because we need to start filling the garage with boxes, because we need to start filling boxes with all our belongings, because we are going to move in a month and a half.
We have already packed about 50 boxes, which are now living comfortably in an apartment we have rented for them in a storage facility. We have done that packing months earlier, in order to “stage” our home before putting it on the market.
An aside here: It’s called “staging” because it’s very much like putting on a play. There’s set design; there’s direction (which mostly consisted of people directing me when to leave the house); there’s even acting, as when we had to act pleased when people let their kids run around our house while they peered into our closets. After that, though, the comparison to Broadway starts to break down, unless there’s a show that includes the producers baking cookies before every performance so the theater will smell more inviting.
Anyway, it would be obvious to any sane person that the boxes we have packed half a year earlier and stuffed into a storage unit protected by nothing more than a combination lock from Barbara’s gym locker were not exactly filled with valuables or necessities. On the contrary, we almost immediately contracted amnesia regarding their contents, a condition that was exacerbated by the fact that, in our haste to get the junk out of our house, we neglected to label most of the boxes.
Now, if we were normal people, we would be moving to a smaller place at our age, and would have no choice but to discard these items which we so clearly have no use for. However, we are not normal on any number of counts, not the least of which is the fact that we were moving to a larger house, and so there is no urgency to throw away or eBay any of it, except that it is costing $150 a month to keep it in the storage unit.
It seems a small price to pay to not have to make any decisions.
In the end, we end up moving all of it, directly from the storage facility to our new basement, where the boxes will sit unopened until we move again or die, or until they are unearthed by future archaeologists, who will no doubt be puzzled by Barbara’s salt and pepper shaker collection.
Next time: The Actual Packing