Our House is a Very Very Very Fine House

I had typed up an entry all about moving from my first apartment into a new house with my boyfriend. And oh, what an entry it was, kids. Full of affirmations of strength, bold proclamations, personal insights – I even threw a “lone wolf/wolf pack” metaphor in there for colour. It was a fine example of how accomplished, excited and motivated I felt in the days leading up to my move.

And then I thought about my old apartment last night and burst into tears.

The move was challenging, as moves can be. I am not an organized individual by any means, and moving a house vs. moving a room is a whoooole different pack of wolves (yes! Still managed a wolf reference! *self-high five*). We started on Saturday, in high spirits, just my mom, sister, dad and me, putting together IKEA furniture, eatin’ subs, confident in our knowledge that we were Ahead Of The Game. Fast forward to Sunday at 3:30 when we can pick up the truck and begin our move in earnest, (Pro Tip: Never move on Labour Day. Even if you have to. Just Don’t.) and I am instantly in over my head. The delivery guys for my cable and my mattress *both* come early (which is actually a statistical impossibility, thanks for wondering), and that starts us off on a chaotic foot. By Sunday’s sundown all the big stuff has been moved but half my apartment is left behind due to space/time/lack of light and I’ve now got an apartment full of crap and a house full of crap and no idea how the hell I’m going to finish this job or how I acquired said crap.

Monday comes and with it, another 6 hour moving day, (thank GOD for the world’s most understanding families). Labour day is full of just that, along with cupcakes, Indian food, broken glass and impossibly heavy futons (which gets left behind along with my, I’m just assuming here based on weight, made-of-plutonium filing cabinet). There’s so much running around and frantic last minute cleaning and sweeping that I don’t even really get a moment to process it all. My sister and dad leave my old apartment last, telling me that they said goodbye to the ol’ girl for me. I thank them, send them both home and hook up the tv/dvd player so we can get reacquainted with those maddest of men – Mad Men.

Scandalous 1960s doings a-transpire, the credits roll and we get ready to go to bed. And then – bam. I’m bawling. Full-on, shoulder shaking sobs are wracking my body as my boyfriend looks on, afraid to touch me lest he catch what’s suddenly infected me. I can’t stop thinking of my poor abandoned (and apparently anthropomorphic) apartment, empty and alone. I take it a step further, thinking of how it personifies my independence, how it’s the first place I could really call my own, how I could waste my time there and not clean or cook or, let’s be honest, wear pants and no one would care. And now it’s gone. I was a renter. I was an Urban Girl on the Go ™ who had no time for mortgages or home repair – I was too busy being fabulous. And okay, I know no one really saw me like that but Oh My God, I can’t hear that logic because I’m too busy crying all the available tears.

The Boy and I talked a lot about the cost of moving in together, what we’d need for the house, the timing, the logistics, but with only one month to get it all together, we didn’t really talk about the emotional side of things. We sort of swept it under the rug and focused on what needed to be done, signed, bought or borrowed. Now that that’s pretty much over with, all we’re left with is our feelings on the matter and 137 hastily-filled boxes. He admitted saying goodbye to his dog left him feeling teary and heartbroken. I admitted that the idea of the “single girl” part of my life being over left me breathless with worry. We love our little house but, as the philosophers Semisonic observed, “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end”

I told a coworker about my dilemma and she suggested I grab a drink, make my way over to the place one last time and give the old girl a proper toasting off. I think that’s a fine idea, and am a total proponent of marking big events with little rituals so I think this will help. So for now, consider this a place marker- if I ever claim to be together or pragmatic in the future, remind me that I, as a grown-ass woman once stood alone in an empty apartment, weeping softly and drinking a Strongbow, toasting the demise of our brick-and-flesh union.

A wolf would shake its head in disgust at the thought. I think I'm more of a "pug" person.