THINGS YOU THINK WHEN YOU MOVE
Just quickly putting some polish on my nails, because Yfke Sturm, Jetteke and Lieke van Lexmond, Danie Bles and Renate Gerschtanowitz are also putting their slim legs under the table during our Paris lunch. My hands were already a petit peu battered and bruised, because I was taping boxes like a madman the night before at a quarter to twelve and fumbling with scissors (hell no, I’m not tearing that nasty tape with my teeth, do you know what that’s made of?). I had no silly outfit to wear because everything was packed. For which I sincerely apologize May, I promise you I will go shopping again soon. But I had to move. Help was dispatched. Buses rented. Meal provisions in the form of a mother-in-law enlisted. I just had to quickly do a Paris lunch, the launch of my dearest colleague Kim and a farewell, including ugly crying in the W Lounge All the food is for you.
Moving, I like it, but it’s not really my forte. Now I am a blessed person, because my boyfriend brings order and structure to my chaos. Nothing in weird bags or sacks; it has to be moving boxes. And immediately making a selection between what can go or must go. Honestly, I secretly smuggled things because the decision was just way too emotionally heavy to make in five minutes. And now it’s of course grandly in the way, but you could have guessed that. And further my move went about like this.
1. Why, but really why are the moving boxes gone when I still have one box to pack. Or the bubble wrap. Or the paper to wrap your glassware in. Or your marker to draw the directions on the box. Or the tape. Yes, that’s the most inconvenient, because hell no, that tape does anything for you in such a situation. Why?
2. My new house and old furniture are not made for each other. The couch curled perfectly in the corner of my previous casa, but not here. And the Mexican cabinet that was dragged down the stairs by five people and therefore seriously life-shortening is quite unattractive. On. every. wall. and. in. every. room. Oh crap, guys.
3. I have too much junk, but in the wrong form. Maybe I’m a hoarder? Yes, I must be a hoarder. I think there are programs for that where I can get help. I’m going to call now, I’m an extreme hoarder.
4. My boyfriend just said that I’m not an extreme hoarder, if you don’t count my shoes. Holy guacamole, eight boxes of shoes. And not small ones, huh? Just a good-sized box. I wanted to accuse my beloved of having too many shoes, but he only had one share in the box parade. Okay, okay, shoes do something in my head. And they always fit. Look, they are much nicer to you than a pair of jeans.
5. Crap, the address changes. Totally forgotten. I did register with the municipality, so the blue brigade knows how to find me (really, when don’t they). But further? All my mail is still neatly sent to the old address. A point for the weekend.
6. I’ve lost everything, but everything. My red brush, my high-heeled brick sandals, my tea lights…
7. And I find just as much back, because the summer part of my beautiful shoe collection has been in a box for four months, I had no idea which books I had again and I just fished my lost nail polish from O.P.I. out of the drawer. I’m now humming ‘I’m sorry’ to them non-stop because I’ve neglected them.
