Our stuff comes tomorrow.
And I do mean that in a bad way.
There's nothing I can do about the fact that in eight hours, a tidal wave of possessions is comin at us like a giant Ebola-infected spider monkey. (This is what happens when I blog from bed at 11:48 PM: I mix my metaphors.)
I will probably change my tune a little when I get to have a nice hourlong reunion cuddle with my couch. Which won't happen tomorrow but with all the help we're getting from family--help! We've never had help on this scale for a move! We've never needed help on this scale for a move!--will happen sometime soon.
I am theoretically excited about simplifying, downsizing by what feels like half. It's something I've wanted for years but that just wouldn't happen until we literally didn't have the space to fit everything. That time is now.
But, heretofore, I may have engaged in a little light hoarding; did I mention that?
So if you see me weeping over some old t-shirts, or giving the perplexed eye to some written-in Bible study books, or agonizing over whether my SCUBA gear should stay or go (will my sinuses ever be healthy AND me not be pregnant simultaneously?), pry whatever it is out of my clenched fist and disappear it to the thrift shop. ("Cuz I've got twenny dollas in my pocket....") (Does that song get instantly stick in your head too?)
I'll thank you later. But first I have a thing with a couch.