Today, I woke up at 3am and realized that last weekend, amidst the frenzy of packing, I packed the Title for my car.
The title is the thing that proves I own it. It also allows me to sell it. That’s a thing I intend to do since, you know, I’m leaving the country and have no need for a Massachusetts-bound vehicle or the insurance bill that goes with it.
The movers come tomorrow.
For a full grasp of the severity of the situation, here is a (slightly) dramatic reenactment of the state of my apartment:
The real kicker here is that the file was in a folder that I had set aside. Why was it set aside? Because I had the forethought to find a couple of important documents that I needed to make sure didn’t get packed. You know, like the title for my car.
Then, while packing final things with my mom, like the swiss-cheese-brained distraction machine I am, I grab that very folder and toss it merrily into a box. I can picture doing it. I can see myself, like a slo-mo video in my mind, handing the folder to my mom and watching as she placed it neatly in a box.
I KNOW WHICH BOX IT WAS.
Thank god for my weirdly visual brain, and my obsessive ability to remember where and how things were packed. I had a sneaking suspicion it was in one specific box, but it was definitely in one of two final boxes we packed on Sunday, which were sitting neatly in the corner.
Also, I texted my mom.
Her brain agreed that it was in that one box. I think I get it from her.
Crisis: averted. But good lord this could have been a disaster. Once the movers get their hands on these boxes, good luck figuring out which one it was and where that box wound up. From my apartment, down into the truck, and then into storage… that is a haystack you don’t want to have to dig through.