Moving day came and went. 'Twas a longie. I was up at the ungodly hour of 6am to get myself ready for the movers. Stepped outside for a smoke and became mesmerized by the unexpectedly dense white clouds above...
Before the fellas turned up, I snapped one last pic of my nearly naked bedroom...
And living room, where The Kid and I spent most of our time...well...living...
Was done with everything much later in the day and finally sat down to dinner with my parents around 8ish. I was exhausted. If I'd toted any more barge or lifted any more bale, I don't think I'd have survived. As it was, I was so beat, I took to giggling for absolutely no reason at all. Like, a lot. I went to get something out of the trunk of my dad's car and inadvertently set off its alarm. I doubled over laughing as I tried to figure out which button to press to quiet the infernal thing. And every muscle hurt. That evening, I moved with all the ease and grace of a nonagenarian in her ninth month of pregnancy. Which is to say, none at all.
Things are OK. I really shouldn't complain.
But I will.
I miss my own space and not having to worry about pleasing anyone but myself. I miss my privacy. I miss my pretty village street. I miss my teal bedroom walls. But mostly, I miss that sense of independence. The seven years Balthazar and I spent there were the only in which I completely supported myself. (And him, obviously.) I miss these things deeply, with an ache springing from the pit of my stomach. The empty-nest thing really kicked my ass for a couple of weeks, but I was getting over it, you know? I began to delight in my solitude and, dare I say, freedom. Now this...
Le sigh.
These doldrums shall pass, eventually. Unless I die before they do, but you take my point. And maybe someday, I'll have happier personal tales to tell, though I truly wonder...Anyway—for now, there's chocolate. And music in which I can indulge my 80s-based inner Emo...
