Flashes of Panic

We have seven days to M-day, and I’d say we’ve probably got two thirds of the apartment packed. The remaining third fits in a number of small classes:

• Things with alternative destinations. This includes subclasses like items I have listed on Freecycle but haven’t found homes for yet, books going to Reader to Reader, and a small set of books which will find their way to the shelves of the Russian House, where I lived during the ‘93-‘94 school year.

• Furniture which won’t be broken down until right before the move, or will be moved intact.

• The kitchen.

• Things we need between now and move day, and

• Odds and ends which haven’t fit easily into boxes packed so far. These will probably be packed in a muddle at the very end.

This is a good state to be in, because there’s another work week and a some-travel weekend between us and the move. We won’t have much last-minute time, and I now feel more comfortable about being able to do what needs doing in the time available. On the other hand, the place is a disaster area. I can’t believe we’ll have it clean and bare in just over a week. Izzy is always edgy, but today he seems more agitated than usual, poor little guy.

I don’t know if I’ve said it already, but I loathe moving. My idea of a good move is leaving my (intact) apartment on Friday, and returning to a different (intact) apartment on Monday. I am telling myself the things that I tell myself about all approaching deadlines: namely, no matter what happens, after that date, it’s over. When the movers are done, it’s over. This time next month, no more moving, for at least two years if all goes well. So I just keep working that long, and I’m fine.