Starting Over

I moved into my new apartment Saturday. It was quite the experience, as I had returned home from Hawaii on a red-eye that morning. A co-worker, to whom I am deeply indebted in gratitude, helped me as we headed straight from the airport to the office, borrowed the company’s box truck, drove it to my house and loaded it up with my junk. It took much longer than I had hoped it would. Mrs. Farrago said I have a lot more stuff than I realized, but I think it’s more that I gave myself too little time to prepare and had much packing to do, and did the majority of it on moving day. That’s what really slowed everything down.

The worst part of the day was unloading the truck into the apartment. In hindsight, we did it the wrong way. From where the truck was parked we had to walk half the length of the entire building to get in through the main entrance at the southwest end of the building, and then back about 2/3 that distance to the door to my apartment. The “rear” door, which faces the parking lot and is about 1/3 the distance to where the truck was compared to the main entrance would have been the better choice, with much wider steps to climb outside, and only one set of stairs inside, versus the two sets of steps and the U-turn in the middle at the main entrance. I didn’t think I had the right key for the rear door. By the time we arrived at my apartment it was mid-afternoon. My only defense is that we were both so tired from the long flight from Hawaii and the day of pushing past the urge to sleep that neither of us thought to go OUT the rear door and prop it open, and save our backs and heads from the ensuing aches our decision caused. I found out Sunday I had the right key after all.

I still have a few things still to move, but it’s not terribly much. It’s all stuff I can move by myself or with the help of handtrucks.

The apartment, three days later, is still in a state of disarray. I have unloaded very few boxes as Sunday I slept in until 11:00, went back to the house for more stuff, dumped that off in the apartment and went back out to buy kitchen stuff I need to survive. And I was up until 2:00am Monday morning! Monday evening I emptied a few boxes and hung up clothes, but, still without a full complement of cooking items or stuff with which to clean them, I had to go out again to eat, and do a little more shopping.

Tuesday I headed out mid-day from the office for two nights in Boston, so I won’t get back to the apartment until Thursday evening.

Moving can be a depressing experience, despite the circumstances. You take everything you own, package it up into neat little boxes – or not – and you load it all into a truck. When it’s all there in one eyeful, you realize a few things at once: Man! I have a lot of stuff! And then comes the realization: I’ve been collecting stuff for (x) years, and THIS JUNK is all I have to show for it?!

Most of it is stuff I really should get rid of.

And then, of course, come the circumstances; the failed effort, the interrupted dreams, the plans for the house and our future we had made that still rattle around in my head as though I’m still part of it all. It’s almost as though there was a death. And I guess there was – our marriage.

I try to look forward to singlehood, to the freedom to do what I please when I please, without having to consider her wishes. I admit there were times when anger wedged between us that I considered what I would do if we split up, the women I would chase, the hobbies and time-killers I would indulge. But now that it has come to pass, suddenly no other women are attractive, my distractions are no longer enticing, my free time is empty of everything except my thoughts.

Granted, I’ve only been officially out of the house for three days. I’m sure the grief will eventually subside.

In the meantime, I’m spending two nights in Boston on business, and I have a dinner date with Mr. Schprock on Wednesday. My hope is that he’ll get me liquored up for a night I won’t remember, and I’ll wake up Thursday morning in the arms of the most popular stripper in Beantown. Only, with the way my luck has been running, that stripper will have a name like Kurt or Sven. Good thing it’s a night I won’t remember.