If this condo is the last place that I live in this old world, I don’t think I will be missing out on anything. That’s how sucky I think moving is at this point in my life.
When I was born among the dinosaurs back in 1970, my parents brought me home to a tiny rental house on West Mueller Street, which also served as my port of departure when I packed a happening yellow beige Pontiac 6000 and drove away to college in 1988. In the thirty-five-plus years since, it feels like all I have done is move.
Just in college, I lived in one dorm, two houses, and four apartments, followed by yet another apartment upon my return from college. Next comes marriage, and in our thirty years together we have lived in sixteen “homes” in five states. Our longevity record for a single address is five-and-a-half years, and that was the house that was destroyed by a hurricane, which at the time seemed a possible sign that we should keep moving to avoid being smacked by the universe.
Thus, I repeat: If I never move again, it seems that I have enjoyed just about all that there is to be enjoyed about the experience.
We returned to California last summer, which actually turned out to be a unique move for us. We moved to a tiny apartment, really a hotel room, expecting to move back to one of our old neighborhoods at some point in the year ahead; so, for the first time we rented a PODS container to ship most of our stuff directly to a storage facility in California. About six months later, a.k.a. a few weeks ago, we moved to our new condo and had the PODS container delivered where we fully reacquainted ourselves with the joys of moving: cardboard; hand trucks; cardboard; assembling beds; more cardboard; furniture movers and navigating stairs; so much cardboard.
My wife and I came to the same independent conclusion: Moving ever again sounds like a terrible idea.
Our situation is interesting: If we ever retire from our jobs at Pepperdine, we are required to sell our condo and move somewhere else again, which means, if you’re playing along at home with me, that our future offers two real scenarios—we can die, or we can move again. I’m just saying, here among the cardboard, that dying does not sound like such a terrible choice.
Oh, I know that I’m just getting old. And that I have a faulty memory, which I understand will not necessarily improve with more aging. There will be a point, I’m sure, when I forget what seems clear right now, and moving yet again is not completely out of the question. But my goodness the list of things I would rather do than move just grew exponentially.
Um, so you are planning to move again? Oh. Congratulations. Well, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about.
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