If you are moving in two weeks
What am I saying, two weeks? In one week and four nights, the moving truck will be at the door. And now I'm pretending that a real truck is coming to pick everything up, but that's of course not true. It's a van that I have to stand in front of the rental company in Hilversum at eight o'clock. And in the spirit of keeping it broad, we've reserved one with a loading ramp. Times are changing; in the past, we used to tie sofas to the roof of the car.
To sketch how the situation stands: the first room is packed, just like the clothes I don't want to wear at the moment (read: not quite yet), in the storage room there are still a couple of unpacked boxes from when we moved here, and meanwhile, my boyfriend is stretched out on the couch because he just threw out his back. One week and four days: breathe in, breathe out. Maybe I should put the books in a crate and the cheese fondue pot, because my waist is screaming for a few months without cheese. I could probably roll up some glassware or take apart a cabinet? Oh no, I also can't lift, because: hernia. My god, one week and four days: breathe in, breathe out.
It's just that flip phones are out of style, but I've mentally flipped through my circle of friends to see who I still owe a move or a day of work. Just imagine, if my boyfriend's back doesn't get better in the foreseeable future, then we'll be there. Crippled and limping. “No, the washing machine has to go in the utility room, the bed upstairs in the back left, the couch can stay downstairs, and just put that cabinet in the shed. Anyone want coffee or a sandwich?” You couldn't wish me a worse move. Meanwhile, my boyfriend suggests involving his mother this weekend so we can pack the rest of the house and I don't further ruin my back (like I did last weekend, which is why I was at the physio this morning). But honestly: I love her, I just really don't feel like her seeing the mess we've made over the past few months. Maybe she'll suddenly pull out some sports gear from a bag that got lost in the shuffle. “I'll do it myself,” I mumble to him. One more week and four nights: breathe in, breathe out.
Contents insurance converted: check. From my previous house to my next one, to be precise, my belongings have apparently been unprotected in my apartment for two and a half years. And what does a little building insurance do these days? Meanwhile, I'm struggling through a pile of magazines that I really can't take all of this time (from myself and my boyfriend). Even though it always hurts a bit, as if I'm throwing a bit of love in the trash with each copy.
But one thing I keep telling myself, and it still feels a bit awkward: next Saturday, I will be living in that house from 1918, with a garden and a fireplace, French roof and... I. Can't. Wait. I think I'll try to pack a box tonight.
