It's as if the entire system of cleaning, packing, and moving suddenly gets constipated.
The solution is so simple: take out the trash. And yet, when I'm feeling a little a lot overwhelmed with life, it's much easier to collapse on the bed and claim defeat by the small dimensions of the largely decorative trashcan I inherited from my grandmother.
I feel somewhat sorry for the trashcan. It's not at fault because I just realized how much stuff I've hoarded over my lifetime. It doesn't look very comfortable either, stuffed with freshman health papers and scraps of cardboard and old instruction manuals. But then again, that's its job, so I can't feel too bad.
Moving is a daunting task, no matter how many times you tell yourself, "I don't own very much stuff." It may not be furniture, but you do. You really do. Chances are good, you'll stuff most of it in another closet by the end of the week.
What is more, moving involves change. A lot of change. Change is scary, especially when it means accepting new and broader responsibilities.
And so the trashcan becomes a bizarre metaphor for my capacity to absorb change. It's full. End of story.
Except that it can't be the end. Because I really do have to finish packing by this weekend. And I can't do that unless I have someplace to put the trash. So...
Solution
Bring out the big trashbags.
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