It isn’t the physical pain of moving that gets me. It’s the emotional thing.
“Do you need this?”
“Well, I might…”
“Ok, but do you actually use this? This isn’t as big as your last house.”
“Maybe. Besides, didn’t we already get rid of some other things like that?”
“*sigh* That was a yes/no question… Ok, different tack, where are you going to put it?”
“I don’t know; wherever. Find it a home.”
This is the point where I bite my tongue… hard. Because what I want to scream is, “Look around you; this is reality! This is it! You tell me where you think it’s going in the already over-crowded apartment when we have several loads of boxes still in the storage units!”
Downsizing is often difficult, apparently: there’s quite an industry out there of “professional downsizers” who will help you decide what stays and what goes. Temperament is not making this any easier: I’m very practical, usually. My MIL is very emotionally based. It’s not a good mix for projects like this, let me tell you.
But I have to say that the pre-mixed mudslide in a bottle is helping a bit.
I say, “A bit,” because I have to be at the apartment at 8am again, three kids and DH in tow, to pick up about where we left off. Only tomorrow, there will be no movers (I was SO grateful to see someone besides me lifting that blasted behemoth sectional couch), and we have to swap the in-laws’ newer washer and dryer for our 13-year-old washer and dryer, which need to be hauled to Habitat for Humanity, since I hate to throw away anything that’s still working. And almost all the houses around here are on crawl spaces, due to the high water table, so we have to drag these things up and down six or seven steps, too.
I also have to say that those infernal long-term storage units are a shrine to American greed. Yes, it was nice to be able to stow all my in-laws’ stuff while they were selling the old house, downsizing, and deciding where to go from there… but I think most people use it as extra storage for stuff they don’t need or use (which is often how they’re advertised) or as a way of avoiding decisions on getting rid of “favorite” stuff that ought to be donated or thrown out. I told my DH, as we were yet again walking down the monotonous aisles with a flat bed cart on our way to one of the in-laws’ storage units, “I’m never going to rent one of these things. It’s a bad habit. It encourages hoarding.”
My mom, visiting recently, looked at my library, floor covered with displaced toys, and commented, “It’s getting crowded in here. You need a bigger house.”
No, I don’t, I told her, I need to make a trip to the thrift store with a bunch of old toys and clothes and stuff. I need to be a bit more organized. I need the grandparents to stop giving the kids a hundred toys every holiday. But I do not need a bigger house.
I’m happy where I am.
If you aren’t happy where you are, you most likely won’t be happy where you’re going, either.
Money can’t buy you love, but it can buy you stuff… which is neither love nor happiness.