I hate moving but decided after 30 years in the suburbs of Chicago to be a city girl again. Yea, I'm a decrepit Carrie Bradshaw! Unfortunately, once the initial "oh goody I love my new apartment " passed, which took 30 seconds, I looked around at the boxes filled with my papers from 1975 and suitcases stuffed with clothes I stopped wearing four years ago and anxiety gripped me by the throat. Help, I can't breathe! Why did I move? Maybe I'm not Carrie, maybe I'm Roseanne! I couldn't unpack; I could only stand panic struck surrounded by my belongings and hyperventilate. Where were the smelling salts, and did I ever own any? More importantly where did I put the emergency Sauvignon Blanc? I considered calling an ambulance. I needed to rest somewhere peaceful with nurses administering medication. That sounded a lot better than staring at a pair of hiking boots sitting on top of a box. I haven't hiked in 4 years. The last time I tried it I saw a man attacked by a cactus. I like cars.
I have 14 new keys and a fob that open a dozen doors to get in my building. This makes me sweat and very very nervous. I like one key. And for God's sake what does "fob" mean? I envision standing outside at midnight madly trying key after key after fob to no avail and then pounding on the door . It won't help, but will make me feel pro-active, along with bursting into tears. Why did I move?
And uh oh, where did I put the dog? "Beefy Boy, where are you?" He glared at me from behind a pile of boxes. Thankfully he can't talk. He hates moving as much as cross country car trips. I think he wanted to stay in Santa Fe. He might like city living however- more people, more attention. I resigned myself to unpacking but not before I found the emergency bottle of wine. I've carefully labeled all the keys and wonder if the "fob" can double as a Ninja device for protection. It's possible I'll like being an aged slightly arthritic Carrie Bradshaw and ripped open the box labeled "high heels."