I just survived a… what’s a good synonym for horrible? Let’s stick with horrible — it was a horrible, horrible weekend. It was the weekend I moved into a new apartment.
That photo isn’t from my moving weekend — I didn’t take any pictures during the chaos. It’s from Tenerife instead. I like to hold on to memories of life before the move.
Have you ever been so consumed by one thing happening right now that it feels like nothing else has ever happened or will ever matter again?
That’s exactly how I felt this weekend. Moving into the new apartment felt like climbing Everest. My sole purpose was to move in, clean and furnish. After that — blank. No past, no future — just a messy, dirty apartment. Thrilling, right? I’m half-joking, but I’m starting to think I could work in the relocation business professionally.
I hate packing. I hate packing a bag, my purse, even groceries into a bag. Call me disorganized, lazy, messy or whatever — I don’t care. I had to pack an entire apartment in seven hours, lift things ten times my weight even though I’m not an ant, and somehow fit the contents of a crowded larger place into a smaller one without the help of a shrink.
What I am is a human who, for the last five days, has largely avoided showers, fresh clothes, sunlight, fruits and vegetables, makeup, hairbrushes, the internet, sleep, rest and social contact. In my defense, other people were avoiding me too — maybe it was the smell I was giving off.
Some kind strangers did toss a few coins my way as the furniture was moved, perhaps expecting a performance — after all, I’m Bulgarian and apparently good at lifting and cleaning. Over the past five days I put on quite a show. Everything is now where it should be, the apartment is spotless, and soon I’ll finally shower — which, oddly, makes me a little nervous.
What I didn’t avoid during those days were the same baggy clothes worn for five straight days, dirty socks, a messy greasy bun, non-stop hammering, heavy lifting, painting walls, and scrubbing floors that someone else left in a worse state than a pop star’s dressing room. My diet consisted mostly of cheese, white bread, coffee and sugary, low-quality store desserts. Deliciously awful.
Yay me.
Aside from the chaos, the apartment is great. The kitchen — the most important room to me — is small but highly functional. I could practically live in a kitchen, or at least keep a mini fridge in my room. For now, though, I’ve only made a few sandwiches because I don’t have a fridge yet; I’ve been keeping perishables on the terrace or, more romantically, close to my heart.
I still don’t have curtains and sleeping is difficult because the street is brighter than a Christmas tree. Why does the post office across the street keep its lights on all night when it’s closed? It feels wrong and a little sadistic — that harsh yellow light makes me want to test my newly acquired hammering skills even more.
On a positive note, I love the new apartment. Looking ahead, I realize that while moving in was important, it isn’t the only thing that defines my life.