Is it the PMS or the fact that I hate packing a suitcase let alone a whole apartment up? I just constantly feel like I can't get it organized the way I want it to, so then why bother? I have these fantasies of labeled boxes, stacked, tetris like with my things. My FAVORITE things. Unfortunately that's most of my things.
If my friends hadn't come over for packing party two weeks ago I'd be screwed. But there's still SO MUCH STUFF. If Bobbi hadn't come over tonight, I would have spent it watching To Love, Honor and Betray on Lifetime. The bad acting, the dramatic music, and oh the dialogue. But instead Bobbi helped me empty the dresser I have to get rid of since it won't fit in my new smaller (but more expensive, but has a pool and a porch and central air) apartment. We discovered I have a billion pairs of fishnets most of which I never wear. And the identical brown shirts. Lots and lots of brown. Throwing away is supposed to free you and be symbolic and the first ten or so bags were, but now it's an admission of defeat. Everything I buy comes with this bizarre childish fantasy that somehow if I can just find the right clothes or tights or shoes everything in my life will click. The three bags of stuff for the goodwill from one dresser and some shelves: testament to how wrong I am about that. Is it so emotional because stuff I don't use makes me feel greedy and foolish, each a soft piece of defeat? Or because I can't give it up, this belief in a platonic ideal of a wardrobe that will fix me? In the bottoms of the my drawers I find clothes that I forgot existed, but when I see them I can remember where and when and why I got them (and if they were on sale or not).
Fanatasy lives. In mine I'm neat. Organized. And I don't space out during conversations. I don't spend hours watching Tv. I do the dishes right away. I write every day. And exercise. Ok, so that sounds like the type of person I wouldn't get along with. In fact it might be the type of person I'd find myself irritated for hours afterwards just because they were so damn chipper when they said hello. But maybe that's why moving sucks: digging around in my fantasy lives and realizing that I can't measure up. And I'm the one making myself miserable. But will realizing any of this making packing tomorrow suck any less? I doubt it.