Moving House: Good In Theory

So, whilst I am here blogging my brains out, my little mountain shack remains partially packed. On Sunday we are waving goodbye and heading to the big smoke. While I can hardly wait to inhale exhaust fumes and be lulled to sleep by the whirling and dinging of the trams, there is the unenviable task of packing our lifes into boxes. It is remarkable how much crap one accumulates in such a short amount of time. I have two boxes of magazines dating back to 2003, and I have been brutal and tossed out a lot.

Since getting married I have found that we as a couple argue more. I can't say why, but it is apparently so. Packing provides new and endless depths to plumb for argument material. Aforementioned magazines! 'Why does anyone need an issue of Vogue Australia from 2006?' cries he. 'Sienna Miller's hair on this cover is epic. It is a style inspiration to me! Of course I need it!' is the logical response. Why does he need to hoard every loose screw, nut and bolt he finds? And why does he wash all of his jam jars for 'storage' when all they ever 'store' is air? 

The usual packing regime really starts to commence one week before the move (the months before are filled with endless trips to St Vincent de Paul, so much so that I am afraid to actually visit the store lest I feel I am in my own living room). The woman (usually), who typically keeps the household running, wants to feel like she is organised and starts to put a few things in boxes. The man inspects this task, criticising  both what is being packed and how it is being packed. An argument ensues, resulting in the man retiring to whatever he activity was doing beforehand (ie, nothing) and the woman spends several good minutes cursing the man; and gives up, thinking that that's it, they'll never, ever leave at this rate.

It all comes together of course, eventually, and on time. The truck leaves the old house, arrives at it's destination, is unloaded and the new house is full of boxes to be emptied, more fodder for a whole new set of arguments. 'Why did you pack that?', 'that's broken, I told you not to pack like that', and my favourite 'My back hurts, stop hassling me you asshole!'

I completely understand people who live in the same house their whole life. A whole set of pointless arguments are avoided, resulting in a much more harmonious existence. Except of course, when you die, and your children are cursing you for hoarding 40+ years worth of crap. Imagine how many magazines I would have if I never moved!!

A girlfriend is also currently moving house, and though only suburb to suburb, the arguments are still just as potent. I received a text message from her just yesterday:

"Help me feel better, please tell me your husband has not helped pack up the house either? I have done the whole house, except garage, on my own. He is watching fishing shows."

"Once again", I replied, "more reason why I intend to come back as a man in my next life". I will let her have the last word:

"Hopefully [my husband] becomes a woman and we get married so I can take my revenge on him."

Indeed.