divine angst

The packing thing is going…OK. I bought 15 boxes yesterday but when I began taping them yesterday, Mr. Angst and I realized they were WAY too big for the stuff we need to box—namely, books.

We’ll keep them, as they’ll be useful for clothing and other soft, less-heavy items (and I can’t return them, because I bought them used and the used-box store doesn’t do returns on used boxes), but we need more small boxes. Today at lunch, I’ll go back to the used-box store and hope they have some used boxes in the small size that I can buy.

But the packing thing really is going OK. And everything else, really. The handyman came and finished the last few repairs the buyer required in the contract (although I think he blew a fuse somewhere, because one of the outlets in the dining room no longer works). I think I have someone coming to get the chair tonight. Things seem to be moving along, so I’m just ignoring that hollow feeling in my gut that washes over me when I lay down at night and stare at the empty bookshelves.

Moving is exciting but also hard for me. I don’t really know why. We didn’t move a lot when I was a kid, and I have always loved the excitement of going to a new place. But there’s something about living among boxes and empty shelves that really sinks my soul. Thankfully, this is a quick move—we’ll be done by Sunday, hopefully—so I don’t have to stare at the empty shelves for that long.