Did you hear the wind blowing through Kansas City on Monday morning? That was actually my sigh of relief. The moving is done. (We laughed. We cried. It was better than Cats.) Actually, it was as bad as moving always seems to be, regardless of the preparation.
Moving is like a false-flat, for any cyclists that read this. You do the heavy lifting, drive, unload, return the truck, drink a beer and breathe a sigh of relief. Then you look around the new digs and realize all the unpacking and furniture placement that must takes place and the relief dissipates.
So let's just chalk it up to a long couple weeks. Moving always makes me nostalgic about the place I'm leaving. I love my house. (As a rental, it's still technically mine.) It was the only real estate I ever owned by myself. It was a little shoebox refuge where I honed my house upkeep capabilities - oftentimes with help - and learned to be okay with being alone.
As my mood turned mopey about leaving Ash Drive, Boyfriend tried to give me a pep talk, which was all good and fine until he compared my house to the giving tree. (It gave me shelter for three years. Now it will hopefully give me income as a rental property. Maybe someday it will be mortgage-free and provide retirement funds.) Except I thought "rental tree" was more appropriate, since there is monetary incentive.
To be clear, I do like my new-to-me house. It's at a great location with lovely neighbors and a darn cute house. There's also a neighbor dog that stops by for snacks, which makes me happy. Best of all, I don't have to schlep stuff back and forth between two locations (workout stuff, work clothes, lunch box) which makes things so much easier. Two home bases are hard to maintain.
We are both anxious to be back in our routines, which for me will be regular training and for him will be mountain biking. The wedding is quickly approaching -- less than two months -- and now that moving is done I can actually try to make some of the decisions I've been avoiding. (Dress, cake, vows, etc.) The relaxation of summer has still not been realized, but I'm holding out hope.
Moving is like a false-flat, for any cyclists that read this. You do the heavy lifting, drive, unload, return the truck, drink a beer and breathe a sigh of relief. Then you look around the new digs and realize all the unpacking and furniture placement that must takes place and the relief dissipates.
So let's just chalk it up to a long couple weeks. Moving always makes me nostalgic about the place I'm leaving. I love my house. (As a rental, it's still technically mine.) It was the only real estate I ever owned by myself. It was a little shoebox refuge where I honed my house upkeep capabilities - oftentimes with help - and learned to be okay with being alone.
As my mood turned mopey about leaving Ash Drive, Boyfriend tried to give me a pep talk, which was all good and fine until he compared my house to the giving tree. (It gave me shelter for three years. Now it will hopefully give me income as a rental property. Maybe someday it will be mortgage-free and provide retirement funds.) Except I thought "rental tree" was more appropriate, since there is monetary incentive.
To be clear, I do like my new-to-me house. It's at a great location with lovely neighbors and a darn cute house. There's also a neighbor dog that stops by for snacks, which makes me happy. Best of all, I don't have to schlep stuff back and forth between two locations (workout stuff, work clothes, lunch box) which makes things so much easier. Two home bases are hard to maintain.
We are both anxious to be back in our routines, which for me will be regular training and for him will be mountain biking. The wedding is quickly approaching -- less than two months -- and now that moving is done I can actually try to make some of the decisions I've been avoiding. (Dress, cake, vows, etc.) The relaxation of summer has still not been realized, but I'm holding out hope.
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