I hate moving. I hate packing, I hate schelepping, I hate unpacking. And since this will be roughly my fifteenth move in 12 years, you'd think I'd have this down pat. But I don't; I procrastinate as much as I can and then stress the fuck out at the last minute. So far, par for the course. The excitement of getting a job and the initial rush to pack has ebbed, and knowing that I have two weeks is dangerous. "Oh sure" I tell myself, "you can watch the weekly SVU marathon all day because you're not moving for two whole weeks."
Maybe I should pack up the TV.
It also doesn't help that we're moving back into an apartment. The place we're in now is amazing- it's a 100 year old duplex with hardwood floors and an upstairs and a basement. There are built-ins and original tile in the bathroom. It has completely spoiled me for having to move back into a beige apartment. The *only* reason haven't held out for something better is that there IS nothing better because we have dogs. Our little guy, Ziggy, is no problem, but Shelby is a big dog (60-70 lbs) and most of the places have weight limits of 30 lbs. So this place will let us have both, and it has a pool and is 20 minutes from the Indiana Dunes, so it won't suck while it's still warm out. Winter will be boring, I'm sure, but by then I'll be ass deep in the spring musical, so maybe I won't notice.
I think I'm fixating on the move because once that's taken care of, I will have to write an curriculum and prepare for the coming school year, and if I didn't admit to being nervous, I'd be lying. Excited, but terrified.