I have just discovered something. Well, two things now that I've written that. The first is that I am "just discovering" more than anything these days. I'm old for my age but there is so much I realize that I ought to be realizing all the more as every day passes.

The other thing is- I really detest moving. Yeah, like, putting all of one's earthly belongings into boxes and trucks and loading and lifting- that whole thing I hate! Oh sure, I like starting over, turning a new leaf and all but really, there's just not much worse (except things that involve death or dying) than moving.

Its hard work alright. Because once you've actually packed it all into boxes and carried it down the first flight of stairs and thrown it into the boot of your midsized hatchback or otherwise giant moving van, you've still got to haul your world up another mountain of stairs. You've got to find sturdy and willing young males to lift your giant couch through and around impossible doorways and corners. And you've got to do this all in a matter of a day or two. Because you only have as long before someone else needs your old key. There's a lot of pressure that surrounds the whole thing.

I found out what geniuses those guys were that invented moving services. I found this out whilst transporting the "last load" just yesterday. I passed a semi truck parked in front of a lovely home where men with large muscles and uniformed black t-shirts were streaming like a line of work aunts in and out of the house and gigantic truck. They carried boxes and furniture with cheerful dispositions. All this whilst the matron of the house stood on the lawn shielding her eyes from the sun with both hands and shouting orders or the occasional "careful with that one".

Suddenly it all made sense. So that’s what money can buy, I thought. And I rolled down the street at 19 mph, my Ikea wardrobe shoved so far into the back of my car I had to fold the seat forward passed the clicks and position myself such that my body was folded at less than a 45 degree angle with my chin touching the steering wheel and my elbows cinched in at my sides. Somehow momentarily, I felt like I knew what it was to be an estranged desert tortoise. And that's really something if you think about it. I kept praying at every stop sign or light that I would not be seen by a police officer, or worse, a foxy guy. And even though it seems like if the tables were turned I would find any handsome chap quite endearing for such circumstances, I really believe I simply looked pathetic.

So here I am. I'm buried in boxes feeling really guilty about the idea that I own this much stuff. And I'm overwhelmed to the point that as soon as I convince myself its a good time to begin unpacking I instead reach for my guitar or computer or any other thing I can besides a box. Still, I have visions of grandeur for this new place. I've even got well meaning ambitions to have a yard sale where the proceeds will go towards responsible purchases such as curtains and non-stick frying pans.

These are exciting times I know. Loads, literally, to look forward to. For now I will enjoy the stormy weather and many windowed view I've just agreed to pay for each month. The thing is, I'm happy. Happily overwhelmed with newness and that is just as good as any place to live.