072906Do you remember the first time you moved? Somehow, what I deemed to be all my earthly belongings, fit into the back of one Ford Explorer with enough room for my mom, dad, younger brother and me. It�d taken me a few hours to pack, to sort through the remnants of my previous life and decide what exactly I needed to survive in the big, bad world of higher education. I left the yearbooks, but took the scrapbooks. I ditched the Beanie Babies, but brought my favorite stuffed animal. I neatly packed all the cool clothes I had, �forgetting� to bring hand-made �N Sync concert shirts or that frilly nightgown I�d gotten from a Girl Scout gift exchange. It seemed liked so much, but it fit into a small number of boxes and suitcases. Now, as I prepare to move yet again, I find myself staring at a mass of taped-up cardboard, covered with permanent marker scrawlings of the contents within. No matter how many boxes I amass, there�s still more things to pack. And this charade has been going on for a week already. In five short years, how did I manage to hoard all this stuff? What once was a single car trip and a handful of items has morphed into multiple loads in multiple cars, usually involving an oh-so-expensive truck rental package. Moving is now an art form, a jigsaw puzzle and a math problem combined into one tricky job of getting your livelihood from Point A to Point B in the least number of trips. But with all the hassles and annoyances moving brings, there�s an energetic force to it all. It�s yet another rebirth, another chance to start fresh � and work on your feng shui skills. It�s a personal inventory system, allowing you to dig through your life at this place, in this time, and figure out what you�ll need for the future. It�s excitement and anticipation all mashed together in the blood, sweat and tears it takes to haul your stuff down to the moving van. But I digress. I�ll be sad to leave this place behind. It was my first post-collegiate housing experience. Within these walls, I learned what life�s really like when Mom and Dad stop paying the bills � and you lose your job. I went from proud grad with a salaried position to unemployed coffee drinker in the blink of an eye, but somehow I clawed to the surface alive. And for the record, sitting through an unemployment introduction session with a handful of people who haven�t bathed in days because the city shut off their water is a humbling experience. In this box of pale-yellow plaster, I lived alone with a guy for the first time. I acted like a wife-slash-mother-slash-housekeeper for the first time. I visited a women�s health clinic and checked the box for �No Insurance.� I learned how to julienne a carrot and monogram a hand towel with enough time to spare to design a miniature-golf-themed birthday party. I even wrote my first novel, though I�m still not sure if anyone will ever publish the rubbish. So as I pack up my Mickey waffle maker along with my memories, it makes wrapping each coffee cup in newspaper that less tedious knowing better things are on the horizon. I�m in the midst of a promising job search to end my string of low-paying temporary work. I�m also getting bites on various freelance jobs to cover my expenses while I�m in employment limbo. And that move I talked about? I�m going to live with my younger brother � fresh out of college in Chicago � in a charming single-family home with a bright red front door. Instead of rowdy twentysomething drunks in the halls, I�ll get to hear birds chirping and the playful chatter of the children across the street. It�s a change I�m welcoming with open arms. Look out, South Minneapolis. I�m a�comin�!
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