I'm supposed to be packing. We've gotten four inches of snow since midnight, with no indication of a slowing. I'm on my second cup of coffee (with eggnog for creamer, but unspiked as this is after all still eight AM, though maybe the next cup will be since I'm not evidently getting anything done anyway), still in pajamas and slippers; my last day of work was Monday, and I've been supposed to be packing since then.
We're leaving tomorrow for J's mom's, in whose basement resides still the bulk of our worldly possessions (what isn't in my folks' garage, J's dad's basement, or a storage unit in California). Then on Friday striking out towards California, with the goal of a December 23rd arrival.
So I really ought to be packing. Fortunately, we're pretty compact these days; a pile of books already in their milkcrate-cum-bookcase, one dresser and one closet full of clothes, bathroom supplies, dutch oven, some jars of jam and sauce and pickles in the pantry. Everything else still in boxes in said basement.
If the weather mellows at least a little, we'll be heading to Burlington this afternoon for a farewell drinks-and-pizza with the folks from J's work and some Christmas shopping. My family has instituted a strict one present per person per person rule this year, so the shopping is less strenuous than it might be, and we're mostly done - J, in fact, is I think completely done - but I still have a few items on my list.
I don't want to pack because I don't want to leave. We've got little itty bitty tendrily roots here, and when we leave California next month we don't know where we're going. I've moved - I counted yesterday - seventeen times since 2001. Seventeen! (And that includes three years in which I stayed put for the whole year. Try that math.)
Ages ago I realized that the romantic nomadic life does not, in fact, suit me: I want a comfortable bed surrounded by books, and a properly-equipped kitchen with lots of cast-iron pans, and some place to spread out all my crafty artsy things where I don't have to put them away when I'm done with them. Not wanting that life doesn't seem to have stopped me from having it, however, but each time I grow a little wearier of the whole process.
I am weary of it now. Looking forward to seeing my family, yes. Looking forward to living out of a suitcase for the indefinite future, no. We're hoping that in the early part of next year we'll move, again, but this time move everything out of all the basements and garages and storage units and suitcases and keep them all in one place. With us, in one place. And stay in one place. For a time we can measure in years, with an emphasis on the plural. And maybe never have to pack again.