I just heard the following sentence, from upside down in a large cardboard box, down the hall: "If there is anything I know how to do well, it's move." Yeah. It's a skill we have developed to an art. We have saved boxes that we know our treasures fit exactly, and we have created specialty boxes for paintings and mirrors and the like. We've held on to towels and blankets for a decade or more past their normal usefulness, because they keep paintings from chafing each other and they protect furniture in trucks. We are really good at this.
I have only packed up five boxes this evening, and I feel like a failure for wanting to stop and go to bed soon. We really are making huge progress, but I had trouble feeling it today. I have needed to hit the Advil bottle hard. I pulled up the first couple yards of mortar-encrusted carpet, fighting to cut with the wrong kind of knife (linoleum versus carpet). The worse it went, the harder I fought, and I wrecked my shoulders for the evening. I did find a glimmer of hope. The subfloor on the upper landing, the place where that naughty professional eater dog snuck off to on those early mornings when we were too tired to wake before 7, is in good shape. I worried that it would be stained or worse, but only the carpet was nasty. It smelled like I was snuggling up in Murray's diapers. But even the pad was still in good shape. It's a relief.
Two days ago, the living room was staged for pictures. It was so pretty and uncluttered. Now it's just depressing. I hate the day art starts coming off the walls. When the mirrors come down I get disoriented. And when boxes clog every doorway, it makes my back hurt just thinking about stepping around and over everything. But we are in full swing now. It feels real. No backing out now.
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