Moving is the worst

Moving is the worst.I know that was the title of this post, but it's a point that bears repeating. Trying to get everything packed on time, figuring out what to get rid of, cleaning the appliances, trying to get everything packed on time.I was fortunate in that I'd never had to move as a child. My family moved to my childhood home when I was six weeks old (how on earth they managed to do that with an infant and a toddler is beyond me), and I lived there for my entire childhood and teen years. My parents moved from Long Island to California when I was a sophomore in college, empty nesters fleeing to a warmer climate.Trying to figure out what to toss and what to have my parents schlep across country was not very enjoyable. Fortunately, they were willing to schlep more than might have been advisable, so it wasn't an incredibly painful process. During college, I moved a lot, but those weren't full-fledged moves. Moving from dorm to back home, back to another dorm, to an apartment, to another apartment, to another apartment, back to an apartment, to another apartment, back to an apartment.In some cases, I was able to store things with friends who lived near college and in an extra room in one of the apartments, as I was only away for a single term or the summer in some cases. Those moves were a pain in the rear, but mostly involved moving suitcases and maybe some kitchenware.I lived in an apartment in Louisville, Ky., one summer where I rented a sofabed (omg, that was incredibly uncomfortable), bought a bedside table for $5 at a garage sale and had one pot, one plate, one glass, and one table setting of silverware. Good times.When I graduated from college, though, the real moves started. I moved down to Florida into an apartment that wasn't mine. Another move came less than a year later, into a house. Then, right after Hurricane Andrew, a move into an oceanside apartment building. That was glorious.But each time, the move was utterly painful. Pack things up. Try to fit them in boxes. Try to find boxes. Try to find things to wrap the breakable stuff in. Oh, wow, I didn't even unpack this box from the last move, should I take it? Of course I should take it; I might need it.And so on. After six months oceanside, I moved into a glorious little apartment with high ceilings. The building's backyard was landscaped beautifully and naturally and a most delightful pool sat amongst the greenery and flowers. It was the first apartment I'd lived in that was wholly mine.For the first time in a move, I got to put everything exactly where I wanted to, and I discovered the glory of moving in. I still hated moving out, but moving in was a revelation. It was a chance for a new beginning, a fresh start.I lived in this apartment for about four years. I was not going to move anywhere if I didn't absolutely need to. I had a second bedroom, and it slowly filled up with stuff. Boxes of newspapers with the articles I'd written over the years. Record albums, though I no longer had a turntable. A filing cabinet I rescued from a friend but never found a use for.Stuff, stuff and more stuff.The time came to move to Arizona and the thought of packing up all this stuff was daunting. I hid from it and tried to pretend I didn't need any of it. But the photo albums, the newspapers, the boxes and boxes of books - all needed packing. And the tchotchkes - I had too many, but I couldn't seem to get rid of any.Anything I even hesitated on, I put in a pile and didn't pack. But I couldn't bring myself to get rid of anything, still. My now-husband helped out - he had friends of ours come to the apartment while I was at work and told them to take whatever they wanted of anything in that pile. Slowly by slowly, the pile disappeared. I couldn't tell you a single thing that was given away that I even remember, much less miss.So we arrived in Arizona, and unpacked. Again, a chance to make of the apartment what we wanted. My grandmother died a few months later, and a moving truck arrived with a bunch of things left to me. Furniture and, yes, more tchotchkes. But they were my grandmother's, all I had left of her.We ended up buying a house and moving there a little more than a year later. It was a three-bedroom house, and I got a whole room for my stuff. A walk-in closet for my things. Our living room became a library and the walls were lined with bookshelves that were overloaded with books. The house was incredibly comfortable and we were fully at home there. I never felt crowded by my things, because they were out of sight.Then job offer back in the New York metro area beckoned, and we made the decision to move back East.I was more brutal on this move than I'd ever been before. Gone was the box filled with Rolling Stone magazines I'd collected as a teen. Record albums - sold. Carton after carton after carton of books were schlepped to be sold to the used bookstore. A huge trunkload of clothing made its way to work for friends to pilfer through and spiff up their wardrobes.The TV set was sold to one co-worker; the sofa to another. An entire set of dishes went to a friend who was outfitting his first apartment.I took no quarter. Those boxes that hadn't been opened in three moves or more were all cracked open, and I was brutal in my decision-making.It felt so good.We've moved a few more times since we got back to the Northeast - from our house to an apartment and then back to this house. Over the years, I've gotten much better at paring down my stuff. I still have a bunch of glassware that was my grandma's and I grew a collection of Hanukkah menorahs.I have to admit, though, every once in a while, I ponder moving and I shudder. I never want to do it again. The packing, the cleaning, the everything.But moving in? I'd kind of love to move in somewhere again. Start fresh, choose just where everything should go. Decide what should hang on the walls.Moving out is the worst.Moving in? I guess I kinda like it.Photo by Guy Kilroy via Flickr Creative Commons.