I finished my bath and saw that the rust-orange towel had molted all over my body.
I was covered with tufts of orange fur. It was not a good look, and it felt worse than it looked. Worse yet, it gave me a taste of what the next two months would be like.
My husband, Peter, is a man of many systems, and I have learned to appreciate this over the six years we have been married. He has a particular way to do nearly everything, from making coffee, to washing the dishes, to ordering food stuffs. I have found, by and large, it is best just to stay out of the way and things operate very well.
This brings us to moving.
Peter’s idea is that it makes sense to get our possessions out of the house before we begin the painting, minor repairs and deep cleaning. As we have already purchased our new place, Peter says we should ship all our belongings, visit my parents (finally!), and then return to a clutter-free house and do the work needed before putting it on the market.
I’m guessing you have already figured out the weakness in this plan.
“It will be like camping!” I reassured myself. But one bath with the orange towel has me reconsidering. The fluffy white towel I have grown accustomed to has already been packed and the orange “camping towel,” which will be pitched when we leave, has taken its place.
“Peter, I’m covered with fuzz,” I reported mournfully.
“That’s a very old towel,” he agreed.
“I don’t think I can use this towel for two months,” I clarified.
Peter gave me a look that indicated he thought I might be a bit of a whiner.
“Then don’t,” he said. “You use the blue towel.”
I knew the blue towel he meant. It was navy blue with a huge bleach stain on it. This was a generous gesture on Peter’s part. The blue towel is an absolute gem compared to the orange towel.
“What will you use?” I asked.
“I’ll use a small towel.”
“Just… small!” Peter said, as if I was getting a little too nosy. “I’ll use a hand towel!”
I couldn’t think of any decent hand towels roaming around at this point in the packing.
“You mean like a tea towel?”
“I’ll be fine!” Peter said.
Now I have images of Peter getting out of the shower and drying himself with some tiny relic, with tulips in the corners embroidered long ago by an elderly aunt. And I fear the worst is yet to come.
Strategic lamps have disappeared, leaving corners of the house in utter darkness. I did not point this out to Peter. He would only reassure me that the days are getting longer.
My biggest concern is that my desk, where I spend nearly all day, will be traveling without me. Peter is leaving behind his awful-looking desk and says I can use that. I am not excited. His desk has some sort of tower on top of it, and a slide-out drawer where my keyboard is supposed to sit. I have no idea what will stop the drawer from sliding back in as I type, and I have tried not to consider this too deeply.
But, of course, we will get by. And I comfort myself by imagining how overwhelmed by luxuries I will be in our new place—once we finally get there.
Full-sized towels! Light in every room! My desk!
And Peter will get to work, implementing new systems for our new life together.
Till next time,
Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.