The truth is, nobody likes moving. Mentioning to someone that you are getting ready for a move usually garners responses such as “moving is such a pain,” “I hate moving,” and “you have my deepest sympathies.” But while hauling your material life across the country or even across the street is one of the most unpleasant tasks we can undertake, we have become a society of perpetual movers. I know very few people my age who have stayed put for more than a year or two over the last decade, and many, myself included, have moved more frequently than that. With job opportunities, university studies and even the desire for a change of scenery encouraging mobility, we’ve had to grudgingly become professional movers; boxes and packing tape are on hand at all times.
Of course, telling myself that next time I’m going to hire real professional movers to lug my stuff is something I do after every move. “Never again!” I say, but my declarations always ring hollow. The next time a move comes along I forget how bad it was last time and opt to undertake the task on my own. Maybe we get some kind of perverse satisfaction from moving on such a regular basis. It’s as if complaining about it makes us feel part of the brotherhood (and sisterhood!) of disgruntled travelers. We wear our moving experiences as a badge of honor, proudly sharing the mishaps and hardships that occurred along the way. As I unpack the last of the suitcases and boxes I think wistfully at what could have been if only I had called in reinforcements. But alas, there is no glory in hiring help. There is only a little more sanity.