Its funny the things you learn when you pack your life into boxes. The accomplishments that were once displayed proudly on shelves and bulletin boards go into the bankers box right alongside things dug out of the back of your closet. Just yesterday I learned that I have an appalling number of unread books on my bookshelves – do I pack them away or set them aside, supporting the delusion that I may have time to peruse them in the midst of these next two transient months? And what does it say about me that I have just as many boxes of books as I do Christmas decorations (7 of each, if you’re wondering)? And what am I to do with the overflowing bin of costumes? Am I so bold as to label it that way and trust that my friends who will be enticed (with beer and pizza) to help move me will love me enough to not ask about my Gryffindor scarf or my 1980s nylon windbreaker? Or should I just write “miscellaneous” and hope that the lid doesn’t fly off?
But not only have I uncovered lost pairs of shoes and forgotten mementos (a strange phone number on a doily? i think this was from a waiter in DC somewhere, but how did it get buried in the rubble of my desk?), I’ve also struggled against the loss of order and stability.
My life is in boxes – nothing is quite where I think it should be when I need it. I’m moving twice in two months, the final move to a yet-to-be-determined location. And I’m fighting against the impulse to throw in the towel, pack up my car, and drive until I hit Ohio (I am 26, after all. The Village is calling me home.) But for reasons I can’t quite comprehend, I keep packing up my boxes and looking to the next thing northern Virginia has to teach me.
I’m just hoping it will not involve too many more brown boxes.