Saturday, May 15, 2010


At most recent count, there are 39 things on my list of things I need to do before I move. Some entries:

-Name of movers (Ryan)
-Notarize & send
-New teachers for students
-Weed accordion folders
-Resign > gym

I've forgotten what half of this stuff is already! Curb what? My anxiety? My spending? My burning desire to pitch EVERYTHING that won't fit in the back of an economy hatchback?

Goodwill? God I hope I find some. Do I even own accordion folders? And what's this about resigning from the gym? It's not like I'm a certified Zumba instructor, so it's going to be pretty tough to march in there and declare, eyes flashing, hair flailing, that I quit.

Though it might be mildly amusing to try.

Still, for all the list's shortcomings, I feel massively better after making it. Before, I had all of these things buzzing around in my brain like a nest of yellow jackets. One task would sting me as I was pouring my morning tea; another would ambush me as I squirted the last of the shampoo. I have to do that...oh, wait, that...and that...and that...

I guess what I'm trying to say is that the knowledge that there are 39 things to do, weighty as it is, is not as big a burden as not quite knowing. Better the hephalump pit you know than the half-imagined hephalump pit in the dim flatlands of the future. Lists don't so much grant you control as inure you to your lack thereof. En garde, moving!

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