I packed a thing I need, and other stressful thoughts

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:

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Things that are hard

  1. Deciding which pieces of furniture are worth storing
  2. Figuring out what size storage unit is appropriate
  3. Finding time to make 3,000 phone calls to movers and storage places while you have a full-time job in an open-plan office surrounded by people who aren’t supposed to know (yet) that you’re going anywhere
  4. My jaw muscles from clenching them 24/7 for weeks on end
  5. Keeping this secret that I’M FREAKING MOVING TO PARIS
  6. Finding energy to pack more things after a full, busy day at work
  7. Getting rid of those shoes you’ve always really liked but never really wore but like, what if you want to wear them someday, but are they really worth adding to storage just in case?
  8. Thanking my mom enough times for helping me pack every weekend
  9. Thanking my dad enough times for driving my rejected crap to Goodwill every week
  10. Making time to see all the people you want to see and should see and need to see before you leave

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A series of concerns: My stuff

I first started writing this post months ago, when I was first mulling over the how’s and why’s and whether-or-nots of the moving to Paris decision-making process. It was my first foray into how I might deal with my things. A framework for it, at least.

“Do I get a storage unit? Do I sell it? Do I stick it in my parents’ basement and hope they don’t mind?”

These were the questions of the day.

The answer, inevitably, was a storage unit. And also sell it. And also stick stuff in my parents’ basement.

Much to my chagrin (and the pleasure of my parents) getting my own storage space for my things was the only logical solution. There was no way the basement of my parents’ downsized condo would be a reasonable place to put my whole life’s worth of stuff. While a good size, it certainly doesn’t have space enough for my furniture and armchair and bins clothing and boxes upon boxes of kitchen stuff (that’s all your fault, Mom).

But I also had to decide what was worth storing. I don’t know about your part of the world, but storage units can be pricey. And when you’re storing everything you own, indefinitely, it gets pricier. I had to make some tough choices about what I felt was worth it to me to take up space in that precious _X_ unit — and what could go.

When I moved into this apartment 2 years ago, I had the unfortunate, now-ironic, thought process “Hey, I’m going to be here for a while, and I’m an adult. I’m going to treat myself to real, quality stuff!” And so, in the name of adulting, I bought nice TVs and moderately expensive furniture, and generally higher quality items than I would have, had I known it was all being abandoned in 2 short years.

So what makes the cut and what gets cut? That decision could only be made after carefully juggling square footage, cost, and volume of stuff. If I get this  size, then I can afford to eat every month, but I can’t keep my mattress. If I get this one, then I don’t have to get rid of my chair, and I can mostly eat…

It’s a delicate balance. The TVs did not make the final casting call for this fall’s production of My Stuff: A Storage Saga. Neither did a few other pieces of furniture. My chair stays. I love that chair.

And now, to keep packing.