In which moving isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I have a terrible penchant for building things up in my mind.

Something simple, like moving, becomes in my head a great and terrible beauty.

I imagine myself up and awake at the time when sunshine in the summer still seems clean, and not oppressive. I make Andrew's favorite breakfast so that we'll both have plenty of energy and be sparklingly happy.

I'm in a red and white polka-dotted headscarf(because in my imagination I am Rosie the Riveter?) industriously folding sweaters and placing them carefully in boxes, whilst cheerfully directing my big strong men (Andrew, and my three sweet brothers), where to put the furniture. There is not even a trace of sweat in sight in my moving fantasy, unless it is highlighting Andrew's biceps.

Yeah. That's me.

In reality, moving is waking up an hour later than the very latest I promised myself I would, eating dry cereal out of the box, and realizing in a panic that today is the birthday of someone important.

Moving is being covered in an abrasive combination of slick sweat and fine, gritty dust. And it is everywhere, not in nice places like biceps, but in your mouth, hair, and eyes.

Yuck.

Moving is sneezing and needing to pee, but realizing you already packed the toilet paper.

Moving is just Andrew and I, listening to "his" kind of music loudly when I already have a headache. At this point I am trying to be reasonable, although I can feel the monster within welling up to yell: "WOULD YOU PLEASE LISTEN TO SOMETHING THAT DOES NOT SOUND LIKE AN ACID TRIP????"

Moving is lecturing one another on what we have too much of:

Andrew: "There is no way you really need this many pairs of shoes."

Me: "Why do you have an entire trash bag full of mini-DV videotapes? That shiz is heavy, I can't believe you didn't back this stuff up digitally years ago."

At the end of this day, moving is lying on the carpet in the new place, with a pile of boxes and trash bags in the main room.

Holding hands because it's so hot we can't stand to be any closer together than that.

At the end of this day, I am still thankful for my life; for what it is, not for what I imagine it to be. I have a roof over my head, and someone to hold my hand.

Lucky me.