I have survived raising children, menopause, workplace deadlines, and a global pandemic.

Yet somehow, a move has nearly taken me out.

Five days ago, I arrived at my new house with six carloads of belongings and one fully packed 26-foot moving truck. At the time, I thought, “This won’t be too bad.”

I was an idiot.

Day One was exciting. New house! New beginning! Fresh start!

Day Two involved opening boxes labelled “Kitchen” only to discover Christmas decorations, extension cords, and a lone spatula.

Day Three was spent wandering from room to room carrying the same decorative basket while repeatedly asking myself, “Where would a normal person put this?”

Day Four was dedicated to finding things I had already unpacked.

Today, Day Five, I spent four hours assembling a bathroom cabinet.

Four.

Hours.

The instructions consisted of seventeen pages, no words, and tiny stick figures that looked like they were mocking me.

At one point I had three screws left over, two shelves upside down, and a growing suspicion that the cabinet was actually designed by a committee of sadists.

I eventually finished it, stepped back proudly, and realized I had installed the door backwards.

I may have cried a little.

The hardest part of moving isn’t lifting boxes.

It’s deciding where everything goes.

Every object suddenly becomes a major life decision.

Where should the scissors live?

What drawer gets the batteries?

How many throw blankets does one woman actually need?

Why do I own seventeen coffee mugs when I only drink from the same two?

Every room currently contains random piles labelled:

• Things I need.
• Things I might need.
• Things I should donate.
• Things I forgot I owned.
• Things I have absolutely no idea why I own.

At this point, I don’t live in a house.

I live in a very organized storage unit.

Friends keep asking, “Are you settled in yet?”

No.

I am not settled.

I am wandering around looking for my phone while talking on it.

I am eating supper with a serving spoon because I can’t find the cutlery tray.

I am sleeping perfectly because I am too exhausted to be awake.

The good news is that every box I unpack means I’m one step closer to being done.

The bad news is that I just found three more boxes in the garage.

If I ever decide to move again, please remind me of this moment.

Better yet, just leave me here.

I don’t care if this becomes my forever home, a museum, or an archaeological dig site.

I am staying put.

Forever.