I have adored my current apartment in Cambridge. Really adored it. Located between Harvard and Central Square, it's been the perfect place to throw parties, to have house guests and to just hang out. In fact, the only downside to this apartment has been that it's a fifth floor walk up. Now most of the time I don't mind walking the 64 steps to my apartment. It's good for me. Makes my blood circulate. Builds muscles.
However, now I am moving. And moving furniture down 64 steps is REALLY not fun. Really really not fun. Particularly, when I've acquired so much crap. Lately, I've understood my friend Karin's recent comment when she moved. "You know, all of these objects we acquire, all of these things...they sort of make me sick. Sometimes I feel like purging everything and starting over clean."
Here here to that!
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I can't remember who it was that first made the comment, but during the course of a conversation I once mentioned in passing that Curt and I had moved six or seven times in as many years. The response was, "Three moves are as good as a fire for getting rid of stuff."
It's true. Particularly when you get near the end of the process and there are all those useless fiddly bits left over that you don't quite know how to organize, but you can't really bring yourself to throw them away. Igh.
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