I knew this was coming.
I knew that eventually, the everything's coming roses excitement would fizzle and leave in its wake a stupor so thick and so pervasive that it would cloud anything and everything I do.
It isn't so bad, I suppose. I kind of don't mind continuously hunting on craigslist for apartments and obsessively pinning shower curtains and tips for packing and covering up nail holes with soap on my pinterest wall. There is a sort of strange comfort in all that because...hello, have we met? I'm all kinds of Annie Hall levels of neurotic.
But by far, the trickiest thing about this transition from elation to oh, we have to deal with this now?, is having to confront the blunt, unflinching reality of the situation...which is that we will be moving across country in six weeks.
Or as I like to call it: 48 days and counting. That really get the ol' ticker palpitating.
Maybe a base-line level of stress will result in some extra calorie burnage? Except it's almost noon and I've already eaten four cookies so....probably not. Don't judge me.
Okay, fine. Judge me a little.
There is a small, sensible corner of my brain and in which, I know that everything will work out. I've moved across country before (with considerably less stuff but still...), Kate has moved twice with a child in utero, and the Wilks' trekked two little kids, dogs, and a house full of stuff from Oregon to Ithaca. Moses and I, our bed, my clothes, and our kitchenaid will be FINE. (Because clearly those are the most important things, yes?)
But the problem is that that sensible corner currently accounts for approximately 2% of my actual brain, which at least for the past three days has shifted into full-on melodramatic, panic mode. In my most of my brain, we are most certainly NOT going to fine. We're talking biblical level of teeth gnashing and hand wringing. We're talking me considering taking a page out my Polish grandparent's playbook and purchasing an adjoining funeral plot for me and Moses at the tender age of wayyy too young because clearly this move is going to kill us.
I think--I think?--that this phase is already starting to pass; although, I am sure that I still have plenty of meltdownage in my future. But that's usually how it goes: freak out, recover and deal, freak out again, recover and deal, and rinse and repeat until I'm either mostly bald or coping. Welcome to my washing machine cycle of lunacy: it gets your whites whiter and your crazy crazier. Perhaps its normal? She asks hopefully.