We're moving into our new house this week. I'm pretty fucking excited, but not about moving. I mean, I'm extremely excited about the house, leaving this place, and having much much much more space (as well as a yard, basement, garden, etc.), but the actual process of moving? Fuck that. I should actually be packing right this second, but am instead finding a convenient excuse - finally updating this blog - to avoid the piles of boxes filling up the room.
Husband decided that he is too old to lift heavy furniture and has hired movers (he isn't too old, he just doesn't want to do it, but I'm not about to argue with him, as it also gets me out of lifting heavy furniture). Of course, we'll be transporting some things ourselves - big framed art, fragile decorations and yarn. Yes, yarn. Unlike the other objects we'll be driving over in our cars, yarn isn't exactly fragile. It could probably be considered the direct opposite of fragile. I mean, it's squishy and soft. My garlic press is more fragile. While expensive (when considered as a whole), it's not exactly on a thief's top ten list of desirable items. It certainly is valuable to me, but I can't honestly say that I don't trust the movers to successfully move my yarn across town. It boils down to a question of access. I don't want to not have access to my yarn for even ONE DAY. If the urge strikes, I want to be able to fondle and caress the yarn without having to wait for burly men to unload it off a truck. I don't want to wonder where bin #4 ended up (the basement). I don't want to have to wait to start a moving-day project. And yes, I want to be the one to carry the yarn over the threshold of it's new home.
I guess I should get back to packing. sigh.