There’s No Place Like…Portland?

My goal today is to get this post up before the batter on my computer dies.  In theory, I could just walk to the bedroom and get the charger, but therein lies every every manner of potential procrastination.  

Let’s see if I can’t accomplish something worth reading in 32, nay, 31 percent.  

It’s been a minute, Dear Reader, and there is scads to catch up on, but if I get too bogged down in the detail, you won’t have much but a schizophrenic daydream to work with.  As such, and for the purposes of our conversation today, I’m going to stick with the immediate present.

Right now, I am overwhelmed by the idea and near immediate reality of a move.  THE move.  I am finally getting out of the Tri-Cities.  Insert gleeful squealing here.  I am getting THE FUCK out of Dodge.  

Now, it’s certain that I’ve met more than a fair number of worthy and rousing companions here: it’s with sincere melancholy that I take my leave of them.  These people with whom I’ve surrounded myself have rendered this place palatable; they are oases, bits of the ocean in the desert…Xanax.  I’ve been knocked out, these past couple weeks, with the notion that I’ll be missed.  I was talking to a co-worker yesterday about this, telling her that I felt my grinch heart growing because of how genuine people have been over my departure.  Even though I’m a grouchy old lady with no filter, constantly interrupting her dinner companions.  Even though I’m an asshole.    Even though there HAS to be better company than me out there.  Seriously, I’m KNOCKED OUT.  Just this past weekend, I laughed so hard, and for so long, that I may have blown an O-ring.  That’s something.  

But beyond that, I’m totally, completely, and without reserve, FUCKING STOKED.  I have been here for 3 (and change) years.  I’ve served my time.  Explored the outer reaches of Purgatory.  Found the best taco truck adobo.  It’s time to move on.  I’m like the goddamned Wiz, easin’ on down the road, take note: the skip in my step.  So many boxes are checked.  My soon-to-be home space is within two hours of the coast, and surrounded by trees.  It’s 30 minutes from the city and still in wine country.  There is Les Mills and I only have to audition for a spot.  This is literally EVERYTHING on my checklist.  Well, besides the NOT being on the east coast part, but it’s still a damned good hand, and I’m betting big.  

So here I am, giving that shotgun barrel direct eye contact, and maybe even a little handy.  I’ve got 428 things to do and clean and throw out and organize and donate before the movers come on Tuesday, but the excitement has managed to keep the anxiety at arms length.  I’m going to join book clubs and hiking clubs and maybe even the Junior League.  I’m going to go outlet shopping and hiking and join a CSA delivery.  I’m going to get more tattoos.

I will be alone for the move, by myself when the movers come and when they pack and when they load the truck.  I will be alone to clean the apartment so that I don’t get raped for security by the d-bags in the management office.  I will be alone for the drop off and the unpacking, and if that doesn’t daunt you, then I invite you to take my place for that portion.  But despite it all, I’m feeling very little stress.  Anxiety levels are at an all time low.  Because look at what I’ve got to look forward to.  

So tonight I’ll finish washing all the blankets.  And tomorrow I’ll give away more clothes and end tables and tv stands and carpet cleaners (YOU GET AN END TABLE AND YOU GET AN END TABLE!  EVERYONE GETS AN END TABLLLLLLLLLLE!!!!) and maybe by the weekend everything will be cleaned out and ready.  And in between, I’ll enjoy this sense of impending contentment.  My poor heart needs a break from breaking.  And this might be the time.