When Mike accepted the job in London two and a half weeks ago, moving across the globe seemed so glamorous and fun… and simple.
We just pack up what we need, sell the rest, and go, right?
It turns out, “need” is a very tricky topic. For instance, I see no need to save the thirty year-old Legos and Tonka trucks Mike played with as a kid, whereas he does. Likewise, he has no idea why I need so many shoes when I wear the same flip-flops most of the time.
One night, we were cleaning out a closet and I had had it with arguing about every little item. HAD it, I tell you! When he refused to toss (out) his “collection” of various-sided dice, I simply refused to move.
You read that correctly. Not valuable family heirlooms. Not photos. Not even cards or letters. DICE!
I believe my exact words were, “If you love that *expletive deleted* so much, than take that to London. I am staying here”.
No way was he going to blithely uproot our entire existence and expect me to be “okay” with it, only to pitch a fit about perfectly replaceable junk that’s been in a dusty old box…
… from the top shelf of a closet…
… that we’ve barely opened since we’ve moved here…
… four years ago.
Let’s just say, everyday since has continued to be a series of compromises and headaches, but as Mike’s departure date looms closer, we’re working through it… slowly, but surely.
One of the movers we meet with this week cited moving as the most stressful life event after the death of a loved one and a nasty divorce. I tartly informed him that this move was going to lead to one or the other (totally joking, of course)
I keep having to remind myself… for better or worse.