21 days to the ocean

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The countdown to the new house is moving at an alarming pace. As of today, we’ve got 21 days to go. Three puny little weeks.

I haven’t moved in over five years, and those moves don’t count, because I was in my twenties and was mostly moving from one roommate to another. Only one of those moves involved an actual couch. This time, there are multiple couches! More than one bedroom, even! And books: ridiculous quantities of books.

I feel like we should be more frantic about this. I worry that we’re falling terribly behind and the end of the month will a huge disaster. I worry that Max will run away. But I think I’m wrong.

First off, Max loves us and we love him, so he’d be a really dumb cat to run away from that. Hey Max: if you’re reading this, don’t run away. You’re fluffy and adorable, and your new house has a door just for you.

Also, the plans are coming together. We’ve got a moving company lined up. We’re having reusable moving boxes delivered a week before the big day, and I’ve booked time off work. I’m tackling as much cleaning as I can in a non-empty apartment. I think we’re doing pretty well, despite the doubts. I don’t think it would be sane to go through such a major lifestyle change without doubts. Without them, I wouldn’t have attacked the bathroom with a toothbrush yesterday.

In a month, this will all be laughed off over a beer. Right now, a month feels like a really long time.

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