I’m handling the move just fine. Really. I’m fine. What’s there to be stressed about? Those 30 cardboard boxes on my dining room table? Why would that be stressful? They are all broken down.
Oh, that thing about how Costco is no longer a mile away, but now is like 4.5 miles away down a long, dark road? Why would that be stressful? Just because my happy place remains just out of reach for the foreseeable future and my will to live has evaporated like so much chimera.
Nope. Not stressed.
The dry cleaners doesn’t have candy for my kids so I had to deal with their tandem tantrums upon depositing my dry cleaning yesterday. That wasn’t stressful. Who doesn’t want to introduce themselves to the neighborhood by having their children break the sound barrier down one of the most famous streets in all of Chicago? (Michigan Avenue)
It’s not remotely stressful to not know where that box with my workout clothes is. Who needs to work out when she is SO CLEARLY not stressed? And the fact that Jeff and I have traded off unpacking the kitchen, which has resulted in both of us instituting systems that as of yet appear to be incompatible? What’s the big deal? He thinks that oven mitts go where I am positive the sixteen spatulas he insisted we keep should go. That’s not stressful; it’s a marital challenge. Like Biggest Loser for couples, except I am pretty sure I am gaining weight, but not from stress eating.
Because I am not stressed.
Maybe you heard that I spent 20 minutes crying in therapy because the
stupid fucking sellers of our new house didn’t leave us a mail key and I am fixated on an out-of-print writing book I ordered and a sizable check that is currently lost in the bowels of the postal system of this great country. It wasn’t stressful at all when the management company told us we had to hire a locksmith to get into our mailroom. Those tears weren’t stress. They were tears of pity for the sellers who have wreaked havoc on our lives since we first spotted this home and entwined our lives with their for the span of time it took to buy their house. Bless their hearts.
So, yeah, totally not stressed. There is not an emergency stash of chocolate Clif Bars (because they are “healthy” and also: Chocolate) in my bathroom closet just in case I need a fix as I wade through this decidedly not stressful time of my life. (And I certainly haven’t eaten more than half the box in my first 4 days here. (They come 12 to a pack.)).
I’ve been rolling with the little moguls that life has put in my path. Laid back, I’d call myself. Sadie slathered her arms and legs with Desitin and then walked all over our new floors. That’s cool, honey, I’m so happy you did that experiment. What did you learn? I’m psyched about Simon’s new hobby, which I believe is best referred to as “pediatric kleptomania.” Now I’ve got a mini van full of toys that don’t belong to us and a kitchen decorated with white footprints that smell like ass cream from the fucking devil.
It’s all part of the magical, colorful tapestry that is my life. And it’s not stressful so if you see me losing my ever-living shit in the near future, please know I am not stressed. I’m just crying tears of wonder and joy that all this is mine. Mine all mine.