This Friday will be the 18th time I pack up all of my belongings and set up camp somewhere new. It is, in fact, my 10th move in the past 6 years, and certainly will not be the last for any serious amount of time.
I am a real pro at moving. I was always fairly good at new starts, and never refuse the opportunity to start with a blank slate of a space and decorate it into a warm, distinctive home. Plus I’ve picked up some handy tricks along the way (such as using my soft cotton clothes to wrap all my breakable dishes!). But no matter how much of a pro I may be at this game, it’s still pretty exhausting. More so exhausting is the feeling of being uprooted.
Perhaps uprooted is too strong a word here. I am, in fact, merely moving across the street. Suspended feels more like it. (This is an analogy I first came up with midway through college, when the pace of moving really picked up. It combines my love for analogies with my love of gelatinous desserts. Enjoy.) I feel like the fruit in the jello mold. Not really going anywhere, but also not really staying put. It’s the opposite of having roots at the same time as it is the opposite of having wings. It’s uncertain.
This move is minor, it’s just another blind step in a long series of them. I do hope the series is coming to an end, though, I’m getting tired of feeling gelatinous.