Moving. It sucks.

Moving first myself and then my girlfriend in the last month has given me a keen insight into moving. It sucks. I've learned other things too ....

1) It truly sucks. I learned this first from everyone else. You know how science tells us childbirth is awful but that there's a part of women's brains that, for the preservation of the species (and because brains are misogynists), helps you forget that fact in the face of sexytimes? Well that part of the brain doesn't exist for moving. Nor does the part of the brain that edits what you say about it or when, apparently.

My friends, when I told them I was getting ready to move, happily assured me it would be fucking awful. Thanks, pals! When I asked my boss for a day off to prepare, she raised a hand to cut me off as though I'd told her a family member had died. Moving? Say no more. "Moving is hell," she admonished me. Even a completely random guy outside Staples who saw me and my sweetheart walking along with our freshly purchased boxes and bubble-wrap figured he should weigh in and explain, you know, in case we were otherwise without human contact. He'd moved the weekend before and could vouch that, "moving sucks!"

But of course, they were all right. Why you ask?

2) It takes longer than you expect. A lot of things take longer than you expect, adoption of the metric system, general acceptance of evolutionary theory, college, whatever. But unlike a lot of these things, which only take longer than expected in blue states, moving takes longer than you expect no matter how long you expect. It's like a weird twist of Zeno's paradox, but rather than resulting in never getting there, you instead find yourself cramming whatever you can lay your hands on in boxes or bags or, well mostly the trash, as the moving truck sways around the corner.

My girlfriend, who I'll be calling Alphonse from here on out, benefited slightly from my packing mayhem weeks earlier, because when I showed up and found her considering whether this knick-knack was a better candidate for the kitchen box or the things-from-my-mid-twenties box, I pooped. More than was strictly necessary, given how effing smart she is, I explained, nay insisted, that the gig was up and it was time to narrow choices down to the "is it coming" boxes and the trash.

3) Holy shit we live with a lot of trash! Alphonse and I each lived in a one bedroom. Hers was quite small and mine was a bit larger. I threw out (or recycled, you humorless harpies) around 8 large trash bags of junk I will never miss, along with three boxes of books that went to the used bookstore conveniently open for donations between like 10AM and 4PM, those precious darlings. Alphonse remarked that the process made her feel like a hoarder. So anyway, my best gal and I have agreed that we will do a monthly purge of our stuff so we don't find ourselves surrounded by crap come March. I suspect it's a lie we use to comfort ourselves, but I'll let you know.

The worst part of that is that the grand total of crap doesn't even include the TWO trips I made to the dump to get rid of a desk, two bookshelves, a dead hobo and god only knows what else.

WHEEEEEEEE!!!

4) Going to the dump effing rules!!!! Moving is a stressful endeavor that you're not good at because you don't practice. There are entirely too many choices about what to take, how to pack it, and where to put it once you're there. As the previous item suggests, a lot of stuff that you've hidden under the proverbial rug because you couldn't work out where to put it resurfaces and requires some dealing with. Take that shit to the dump. It's liberating as hell.

Once you arrive at the dump, you are a samurai. The choice is made. This desk will not be recycled or dropped off at Goodwill. This desk will be excised from the list of your possessions and all that remains is to execute your good choice. And the execution requires no paperwork, no planning, no stress. I arrived and began fretting about the correct protocols for disposing of my stuff. The protocol, apparently, is you park in the general vicinity of a huge pile of refuse in the Fort Totten area, extract the unwanted item from your car, take a couple of discus thrower spins for good effect and spin the large wooden plane that was lately the top of your desk as far as you can away from you and toward the center of the heap. It's primal; it's final; and no one there gives a rats ass if you could have reused or recycled that crap.

5) Unpacking takes forever and chicks need lots of closet space. There's no further insight for item 5. It's just true. Plan ahead.