KNOW WORRIES #20 - Moving Out (Jonathan's Song)

Time to go. Or is it?

I don’t mean to brag, but I was at an Ikea recently. That’s right, I leave the house sometimes. I’m not just several introvert stereotypes in a trench coat, you know. It’s not like all I do is read and talk to cats.

Anyway, I needed a new bookshelf because our cat destroyed the last one. And like I said, I was at Ikea, so I was (obviously) full of meatballs. And I was also (obviously) lost. And to make matters worse, this Ikea happened to be under construction. So, throw a couple of detours and a broken elevator into an already rudderless meat grinder of near identical low-profile furniture, and you can imagine how quickly my little quail brain short-circuited. It was bad, and I was terrified and covered in meat sweats. But just when I thought all was lost…

I found it. The bookshelf I had come all this way for. Her name was Lanesund, and she was beautiful. And it was on sale. And it was in stock. It was perfect, and more importantly, it was nice. I’ll level with you guys…we don’t have a lot of nice furniture. Our house doesn’t really have a “style.” There’s no “motif.” We pretty much put the “mid” in mid-century. Look, we’re just not very good gays, okay? Like, we could stand to be a lot gayer.

Anyway, it was just me and the bookshelf. There (obviously) wasn’t an employee in sight, which meant we were all alone. The lighting was perfect. The mood was just right, and I was just starting to peak from the meatballs. So, of course I bought it, right? Right?

Narrator: “He, in fact, did not buy it”

I, in fact, did not buy it.

Narrator: “Instead, he had something of a meltdown for some reason.”

Instead, I had something of a meltdown for some reason.

A little melty-d, if you will. I’m not sure what the Swedish word for “regrettable public spectacle” is, but if I could go to Ikea one fucking time without having a panic attack, that would be great. So no, this was not my first Scandinavian furniture store freak out, which is nothing to brag about, but it did mean I knew exactly how to bring myself down. All I needed to do was find five things I could see, four things I couldn’t pronounce, three things I couldn’t afford, two things I couldn’t put together, and one futon. And I found that futon.

It was a Fridholt. And it was supportive yet comfortable, and sleek while still feeling substantial enough to handle anything life throws at it. So, I sat there and wondered what was wrong with me for a while, which is a thing I do a lot. It’s really not a big deal. God forbid a man should have a hobby.

Now, usually I’m pretty good at recognizing which mouse in my brain has fallen off its wheel. You see, I’m something of an anxiety connoisseur. An enthusiast. I’ve sampled just about every type of anxiety there is. Different varietals. Different years. Old world. New world. I’ve tried them fresh. I’ve tried them aged. I’ve tried the most expensive anxiety there is, and I’ve even tried that anxiety in a box. And you know what? Not bad. Not bad at all.

But despite my expertise, I just couldn’t put my finger on it this time. Yes, life is too expensive to live now. Sure, I’m in the middle of a four-month nonstop allergy attack you people call spring. Yeah, every single day is a hopeless balancing act between shielding myself from the stress of the news while at the same time trying to stay informed enough to protect myself and the people I love. But somehow it wasn’t any of those things. It was something else. Bold yet familiar. It had a strong financial headachy feel on the nose and just a touch of trauma response on the back end.

And as I sat there on my futon in the middle of a strange new place with tears in my eyes, I realized I had been there many times before. In many different apartments. In many different cities. And immediately, I knew what I was feeling. I was anxious about moving.

And that made a lot of sense. Who wouldn’t be anxious about moving? Moving is easily a top five stressful life experience. I mean, it’s right up there with having to share a fun fact about yourself or watching a DJ set up for a performance while you’re only halfway through your dinner. It’s a terrifying prospect for anybody, but particularly for those of us with, let’s just say, a neurological aversion to change. So, it all made a lot of sense all of a sudden, except for the part where I’m not actually moving. Like, at all. Anytime soon. Going nowhere.

So, what gives? What’s with all the phantom cardboard cuts I’m feeling? Why do I smell packing tape? Why am I like this?

Well, it turns out I should be moving. Historically speaking, anyway. You see, I’ve moved a lot in my life. Like…a lot. In fact, two years is about as long as I’ve ever lived in one place, and as fate would have it, we’ve been in our current house for exactly that long. It was like my body remembered. Like my mind knew it was time to start fight or flight-ing. And while that’s all kind of impressive in a purely physiological sense, it’s also incredibly frustrating that my brain chooses that circadian rhythm to honor. Like maybe let’s worry about learning how to get to sleep on time first, huh? Get it together, man.

I have something of a love-hate relationship with moving in that I truly hate it, and it absolutely loves me. Like, it outright refuses to leave me alone and I see it reading Catcher in the Rye a lot, but that’s not anything I should be worried about, right? I mean, I won’t sit here and pretend our history isn’t complicated. Sure, we’ve been through some really rough patches, but we’ll always have Schnecksville and Saucon Valley and Allentown and Macungie and Allentown again and Macungie again and Allentown again and Coopersburg and Philly and Williamsburg and Philly again and Philly again and Philly again and Pittsburg and Cherry Hill and Philly again and Delaware and Philly again and Burbank and Glendale and Crestline and Woodbridge.

Twenty-two times. That’s how much I’ve moved. And I’m fairly certain I’m forgetting at least one (maybe two) places I’ve lived. Forgetting places I’ve lived. This is what it’s come to. I’m essentially always either preparing to move or still recovering from the last move, so I’m basically on the furniture store relocation program. Like, I’m always either having a grand opening sale or a going out of business sale, but I’m never ever, under any circumstances, just open for a regular day of business. Because, let’s face it, stability just doesn’t move furniture like it used to. And I know a thing or two about moving furniture. And almost nothing about stability, so that works out great.

So, why do I keep moving if I hate it so much? Well, it’s never really been a choice. It’s always been on the heels of a family shakeup or a change in schools or a new job or a shifting financial situation or something along those lines. It’s never been on my terms, so it’s always felt like something of a punishment. Like congrats on the new job, now put all your shit in this box. Nice work graduating, here is an even shittier apartment for your efforts. Sorry about your breakup, these strangers are gonna touch all your stuff now, okay?

It's just the worst and I’ve come to hate the whole process so much. The sorting. The packing. The grim accounting of deciding which pieces of your life will make the cut and which pieces won’t. The shame of having the movers lift up your couch only to have it explode like a pinata and shower the floor with bits of candy and pretzels and loose change. The donating of books. Won’t somebody think of the books!?

That’s why I’ve refined the whole process down to a science over the years. The first rule is always buy cheap furniture. I’ve found that really cheap furniture only lasts a few years anyway, so it’s already on its last legs by the time you’re ready to move. And that makes it easy to just throw it away instead of lugging it to your next shitty apartment. The second rule is never own more things than you can fit into a medium-sized uhaul. That way you’re never on some random moving company’s schedule, and you and a few friends can totally handle it, providing you know enough of their terrible secrets to ensure they actually show up to help you move.

And the third rule (and this is the most important one) is to just leave as many things as possible packed from the last move. I know that sounds crazy, but if you don’t fully move in, you never have to fully move out. For instance, I have three large moving boxes in my closet right now that haven’t been opened for 12 years, which is about 6 different apartments. What’s in those boxes? I have no idea at this point. Could be the most important documents/items I have to my name…but it could just as easily be a hopeless tangle of old USB cables and DVDs I never sent back to Netflix and like a fax machine or whatever. Honestly, your guess is as good as mine.

Now, that last bit is a tricky one, because it can be something of a salve too. And if I’m being completely honest, I didn’t always hate that part. The ‘not unpacking’ part. Some of you already know this, but I’m sure some of you don’t, so I’ll give everyone a refresher. I came out very late in life. When I was 37, actually. And prior to that, I did a lot a lying and a lot of running away from myself in order to keep up appearances. And truthfully, moving so frequently helped me out a lot in that respect. It’s hard for people to get to know the real you if you don’t stick around for more than a year or two, and in the same way, it’s hard for you to get to know yourself. Which works out great if that’s the one thing you’re desperately trying to avoid (nervous laughter).

So, now that I’m sure I’m not moving and the meatballs have worn off and I have a brand new bookshelf to fill…I guess it’s time to unpack those last three boxes. I hope it’s not clothes, because straight me was also very badly colorblind, and that’s a terrifying recipe. Goodwill, here I come.