I told Christine that I had just experienced the “move from hell.” She said, “Your last move was ‘the move from hell’ wasn’t it?” Which is kind of true, but also made me feel like my horrible moves are somehow my fault. As if I don’t have the moxie to pack my own belongings, or the strength to navigate flights of narrow stairs while juggling breakables. Like I’m fabricating these hellish, move-a-day outcomes to make a better story.

 

I had this idea to get cute photos of me perched on boxes for this blog. That crazy Mare – recovery on the move again!  But after the fortieth trip up three flights of stairs to get my hanging clothes, I didn’t have the heart for it. So there are no pictures of before and after. Suffice to say I am relocated. And I look like I used to look when I stayed out late drinking and fell down a lot.

 

The offending daybed, now in a garage…

 

I had help…

And it’s not like I had to do it all myself. I had a moving company for the heaviest lifting. But I am sitting here with a body full of bruises and a head full of horror stories to tell. Come on, who has a 4 to 6 hour estimated move take 12 hours? Who has the smiling waif of a moving boy drop 500 pounds of wooden cabinet on the cement stairs and break it into pieces?

 

And who stage manages two enormous, decorative “key pieces” of furniture out of the bell tower of a refurbished church, only to have them founder on the impenetrable entranceway of the new apartment (ne historic home). And what does one do when the movers (after trying two stairways and twisting the furniture every which way but loose) look at you and say, “We don’t know what to tell you lady, but this won’t fit and we can’t put it back on the truck.” At that point, I was tired of sweet talking, cajoling and demanding. I just didn’t care. But, it’s not like putting a rickety end table at the curb for someone to dumpster dive.

 

These pieces of furniture are so large and unwieldy you need, well, a moving truck to move them. Luckily, my new landlord owns cattycorner mansions. I mustered enough charm to negotiate temporary space in his garage across the street, and got Niles and Clem to carry my behemoths to yet another location.

 

Unpacking the shot glass collection and all those flasks, again…

And why my friends do I keep packing and moving my shot glass collection? Hoisting box after box of brandy snifters and my Grandfather’s Waterford sherry flutes? And why can’t I just throw away those gag cocktail napkins, whiskey flasks and the wine glass that holds an entire bottle? I don’t think there’s any nostalgia for the days when I carried a wine goblet like an affectation. So why not toss the alcoholic’s accouterments?

 

I’d like to say this is my final move. That I will never move again. But the truth is, this move is just the next step in my resurrection/recovery (I have a fireplace!). There will be moves in the future and more stories to tell. But I need that neat, little book by the Asian woman who helps people all over the world organize their dross (keep/give away/throw away). I need to keep only those things that “bring me joy”.

 

Which reminds me, it does not bring me joy to schlep all those extra wooden hangers and the throw pillows that keep multiplying. And for God sake Marilyn, you will not be hosting a martini buffet anytime soon, so give away the martini glasses. Give them away. They do not bring you joy…

 

Today I’m not drinking, because I am moving again and keeping only those things that make me blissful…

How come you’re not drinking?

E2E I hope you are finding joy…

The post Moving the Shot Glass Collection Again… first appeared on Waking Up The Ghost - Alcohol Recovery.

In the end, the reason I decided to move was because of a shower curtain rod. There were lots of reasons I can list, now that the decision is made, for leaving my apartment. It was expensive. Especially given its (admittedly groovy) industrial, proletariat vibe. I never saw anyone in the halls and isolation is not good for my psyche. And with 40 foot ceilings, it was a challenge to heat in the long Michigan winters.

Thinking, thinking, thinking…

My lease is up this month and I have spent a fair amount of time  standing in the middle of the “great room” and thinking, moving is just too hard. I have big, heavy pieces of furniture and live three flights up. There’s a bookcase so unwieldy, the previous movers threatened to leave it on the landing or cut it in pieces to make it fit into the narrow, third floor hallway. And there is the tedium of changing my address. I have an orchid. A new case of water unpacked in the refrigerator…

Two weeks ago, my shower rod fell in the middle of the night. Again. It is something I have battled my entire tenure. I don’t know whether the Restoration Hardware, linen curtain is too heavy or the rod not quite long enough, but it has never fit properly. I’ve padded the gap with paper handtowels folded into discreet squares. I have augmented those patches with damp toilet paper (the sides of the shower are slippery). And just when I think I’ve got it beat, it crashes at the most inconvenient time. And I find myself stuffing more, less discrete, wads of scrap paper into the breach and cursing my fate. Why? Why God? I might whimper, at a particularly vulnerable moment.

I never thought to buy a new shower rod, or even complain to the landlord. They supplied it after all, and every time my handiwork crashes, it takes a small swath of paint off the bathroom wall so they should want to fix it. Anyway, the last collapse was the final straw (rod?). I folded up the shower curtain, propped the curtain rod against the wall and put a towel down on the floor to catch the splatter when I take a shower. And like a bolt from above I thought to myself, it’s time to move.

When Something Small Leads You to Decide Something BIG

This is typical of how I make big decisions.  All the good reasons for a life change might be clanging in stentorian obviousness and I will ignore them. Then, someone like Dee or David makes a simple comment, or a shower curtain falls and the way becomes clear.

Take how I got sober for example. After ten years of not-so-subtle prompts to quit – knocking out my teeth on a dive-bar countertop, getting divorced, falling off bar stools, the yen to drink in the morning, running short on cash, falling for another “inappropriate” boyfriend – I quit drinking for good, because my son Jonathan needed to be picked up from the airport. Go figure. He was getting in from England at midnight. Usually, I would have gotten my drinking in early, passed out, set an alarm and “sobered up” enough to go get him. When we got home I would have poured a nightcap.

Instead, I just didn’t drink. All day. And a bell went off – I thought to myself, this is enough – I’m done. For almost four years, that decision has stuck.

Is There a Moral to This Story Mare?

The moral to this story is that getting to the right decision is a good thing, no matter how long it takes. Better however, is the ability to read the signs. Change is never easy – especially when packing boxes or the pouring out of hooch is involved. But ignoring the BIG things is a form of self-punishment. In the NEW APARTMENT, I am going to be more aware of my surroundings, take better care of myself. Take note of the forewarnings.

And in the new apartment, if the faucet drips, or the shower curtain falls – boy oh boy, look out. I am loaded for self-care bear…

The post When the BIG Decision is Prompted By Something Small first appeared on Waking Up The Ghost - Alcohol Recovery.