Things are coming together in my preparations for the big move: the internet installation is set up for Sunday, movers are ready to go, table is sold, desk and chair have been delivered, almost everything is packed, and it even turns out that I don’t have to pay the entire rent for my last month in the current apartment since I’m moving out early! They’ve prorated the rent for May, which in my experience isn’t a usual thing, and they’re just taking it out of my security deposit. I can’t help but want to pump my fist in the air, Rocky-style.
Moving out starts to stir up memories—ones that aren’t necessarily bad, but ones that feel good to purge and move on from. The waffle maker, for example, has memories of two boyfriends attached to it—of Steve, when he whined, “You’re taking the waffle maker?” when we broke up (it had been at his place temporarily), then winced and got teary-eyed when I said, “Of course I am. We’re breaking up.” Or the Crush, who experienced my first attempt at whole grain waffles with flax seed and walnuts, while I taught him how to beat egg whites. There’s the dining room table, over which I’ve spent countless hours writing and proofreading, over which I shared homemade dinners with boyfriends, sold and carted away just last night. Last year it was the wall I’d built in my first apartment to turn the living room into a second bedroom for a roommate. Kicking it down was one of the best feelings ever, obliterating the last tangible thing that ex-Steve and I had built together.
It’s not with bitterness that I observe and move past the memories. It feels pretty good, and even makes me smile. Those were good times, so I enjoy the good memories (at least now I do), and relish in the fact that the location won’t be associated with that boyfriend anymore. He’s totally gone (though, dammit, the Crush still has my copy of “North by Northwest.” Guess I’ll have to buy another one). Funny how that works. Even leaving behind a sensor light switch feels pretty damn good.