We are doing it again.

Moving, that is. It will be our sixth move as a couple and — mostly because of our age, I suppose — this one seems so final. I know it doesn’t have to be, but I haven’t been able to shake the feeling: This is the house I will probably die in…

When we move, we go big. Vermont to Massachusetts. Massachusetts to Virginia. Virginia back to Massachusetts. Now Massachusetts to New Hampshire. There were a few inter-state moves among these, bringing the total up to six. And, for the most part, we did these ourselves. The big concession was to move using ABF one time, which meant we still had to pack our damn selves. And the truck. The move before this one involved two cars and two 24-foot Ryder trucks, and one of them broke down in Connecticut. We were towed in by a huge Peterbilt vehicle that looked like an extra from Star Wars.

What is it about moving that makes it one of the top stressors in our lives? My (unrealistic) philosophy is to take the clothes, books and manuscripts and lock the door behind me. Buy new things for the new start. But that’s never how it works. And Lord, can we collect things!! I am stunned by the amount of crap we have accumulated over these 30+ years and by the knowledge that, as child-free people, that crap will probably all end up at the dump someday. Charming.

So what to do, what to do? 

First, we have about nine months to get out of here, which gives us some time to go through things. I can be somewhat relentless with my crap but have very little control over the crap belonging to the pack rat I’m married to. No matter. We will have separate offices and a great big barn into which to throw things. I regret not having to downsize majorly, but have no idea how that would have worked, anyway.

For now, I am organizing and packing books for easy shelving, making tough decisions about all the things that have been dragging me down for decades (you know, if it doesn’t bring you joy …), and consigning clothes like a madwoman. I will be ready this time. Fingers crossed.