I have moved exactly 6 times since I was 13 years old, this weekend being the 7th. Each time I feel like I have fewer boxes and less stress. Except this time. Because this time, my mother has hired my ex-boyfriend to help us move - in addition to the Saturdays he spends teaching my brother about lacrosse and life.
This is my life. You can't make this stuff up.
Actually, I like moving. I like the feeling of a new neighborhood, and a new house. My mom worries that my childhood was ruined by my learning to travel light through life; only one memory box, unattached to furniture. Clothes are the only thing that need to be kept in check, but I like trading in old clothes at Buffalo Exchange. Returning them to the cycle of retail-life. She worries that because of my experiences, I will grow up and only live in one house my entire adult life. Unbudgingly, as if to offset my skyrocketed number of previous houses. I feel differently.
The way my memory of adolescence is categorized is by houses. To be honest, it makes things much easier. I get the feeling I will need to continue this constant shuffle of living quarters in order to keep my memory sharp as old age approaches. But who knows.
What I do know is that my next move after this weekend is to NYC. I hopefully won't leave the small, overcrowded, polluted, and beautiful island for a very long time - but don't hold it against me if I try out every neighborhood there before I leave.
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