We put in the offer on our house in early June. Our real estate agent wrote out a hopeful contract with a June 31st signing.
Which turned into July 31st.
We skipped August all together, and moved straight into September 28th. Then 20th. Now 25th. At some point I am assured we will own a home. I may have the keys for it Monday. Or Tuesday. But I must have them Wednesday by noon, as that is when our cleaning lady is showing up at the new place to remove the funk of the previous owner.
At first, I packed eagerly. I organized things, sorted piles that could go to Goodwill, tossed ripped or ill-fitting clothing. Made TJ throw away a bag full of receipts and paperwork he just knew he'd need someday.
And then I stopped packing, and closed the door on our guest bedroom so I wouldn't have to look at the piles and piles of boxes.
And now, maybe, in a few days or a week, we'll have a new home. And I'll have to move into it. And I have finish packing.
So tonight I got off early, with every intention of spending three solid hours sorting the rubble and packing boxes. I've been home an hour, instead of packing I have:
1. Read a Batman comic book TJ brought home from the library.
2. Watched an episode of Buffy ("Halloween" from season 2)
3. Baked a potato for dinner.
4. Sat on the floor and played with the cat.
5. Started a load of laundry.
6. Finally got a box and put something inside it, declaring, "There! I'm packing!"
7. Stopped packing to write a blog post about packing ...
I guess after nearly four months, I've just lost all my enthusiasm for packing.
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