One thing that I have learned in the 35 years I’ve been moving is that it is never easy, it always sucks, and I will inevitably leave things till the last minute and end up scrambling.
Before I went to England, everything was falling into place and I thought, foolishly, that my perfect place to live would also fall into place just as soon as my foot took its first steps off the plane and back onto American airport-soil. Wrong.
Wrong wrong wrong. I have too many animals. I have animals that, save my cat, are over the weight limit. And do I want to live in an apartment if I could score a house with a fenced yard?
I have lots of people in my corner trying to help. I have lots of websites to go through offering “gated communities” and “tastefully appointed properties.” I’ve sent hundreds of emails and even called a few places on the phone (my family can put their eyeballs back in their heads, I do make cold calls to people I don’t know ON OCCASION). Nothing, save rejections for the above mentioned reasons.
So packing has been on the back burner, with the rationale being this: “Why bother wasting energy to pack when there’s nowhere to go?” That held water until today when I realized that if I follow my original time table I will be moving one week from today.
I’m currently taking a break from packing the office. About half of the kitchen is packed. I have a closet and three dressers full of clothes that will be sorted and some discarded because I just don’t need all that stuff. And somehow I am supposed to be ready to head to Greenville EARLY on Wednesday with the dogs and the cat, to leave the cat at my vet to board and hopefully find someone that can watch my dogs (that won’t require me to drive to either Charlotte or Charleston…).
Enter panic, stage right.