Packing

I have a lot of stuff.

After an unfruitful attempt to make some get well cards this morning, I decided my lack of creativity stemmed from the fact that I haven’t even made a to-do list yet of things I need to get done in the next two weeks. So I shut down my Cricut, and starting going through my clothes.

Who on earth needs as many clothes as I have? I’m pretty sure no one. But they are now all in one of three places: my armoire, to be worn over the next couple of weeks; in my trunk, to be delivered to the Relief Society President for families in need; or packed. Clothes taken care of, check.

Then I moved on to my books. Oh, my books. Who on earth needs as many books as I have? Pretty sure no one. I gave up on the books after packing most of one bookshelf. I want to take some books from school to the book exchange to sell them back, knowing that I might get all of $15 for the 20 books I don’t want to move to Omaha. But the mere thought of moving the books to my car and then hauling them into the bookstore wears me out. Books still need work, semi-check.

After the books, I tackled my kitchen. Who on earth needs as many appliances as I have? Say it with me: no one. But I wrestled back into their boxes the appliances I knew I wouldn’t use in the next two weeks, styrofoam packing and all. I couldn’t bring my self to pack up my KitchenAid just yet, for then it will feel completely final that I’m leaving. But I did pack up all my glasses. Then I got caught up in the tennis match between Richard Gasquet and Andy Murray, and packing lost its appeal. Kitchen, about one-quarter packed, che.

Now I will spend the next hour making my surroundings livable again, as things are strewn about, and maybe I will take another crack at making get well cards. Only to repeat the process tomorrow.

I hate moving.