One thousand, one hundred thirty-four days after moving into the apartment I call home, I am moving out. My new apartment is the first place that I’ve selected on my own, without a live-in boyfriend/husband (yes, the same person), since 2003. I move in on Saturday.
In spite of the drama that involves any move, I couldn’t be happier for this new beginning — and am amazingly not stressed about it either.
It’s interesting to me that I don’t feel contemplative or bittersweet about leaving my current home. Sure, this was where I lived when I found out my brother died, and dealt with the grief that accompanied it. It’s where I realized my marriage was not going to work out, and needed to end. It’s where I welcomed not one, but two new animals into my crazy existence, bringing my number of furry children to three. It’s where I started my business, studied towards my yoga teacher certification, changed my hopes, dreams, goals, expectations. All part of life I guess. Nothing to dwell on or get dramatic about. Life happens wherever you are.
What I do feel, however, is the need to purge. More so than with my separation/divorce, I see this move as an opportunity to get a fresh start through and through. I’m cleaning house, baby — without a second thought. No, I don’t mean I’m getting rid of the “sentimental” stuff — what little of it I have anyway (the seemingly annual apartment moves throughout my 20s redefined my sentimentality when it meant lugging boxes of crap from one residence to another). I’m reducing clutter. Donating/selling/recycling all the stuff I don’t want, like, or that doesn’t make me happy. Refusing to pay someone to move the random “stuff” that I’ve carried around for years, just because. I’m taking inventory (oh how the anal type A-me celebrates!) so I know what I have and what I need.
Life, simplified. It feels awesome.
This is a good step for me. I am happy with the new apartment I found and its location, am reveling in the packing and organizing, and am more than ready to begin the new adventure.