My husband, the pessimist (he calls himself a “realist”), always expects our moves to be a disaster.
I, the optimist (he thinks I’m on drugs), always expect our moves to be smooth.
It’s halftime, and things are going so well that even I, the optimist (or druggie, depending on who is talking), wonder if things aren’t too good to be true.
I have NEVER heard a good story about moving. There’s always SOMETHING. The biggest complaint I have so far is that WE have so much stuff it took them about ten hours to load the truck. They didn’t finish until about 6 pm. I was hungry and wanted dinner. Moan.
The truck wasn’t even scheduled to be here until today, so we’re already 24 hours ahead of schedule.
And normally when a truck departs, you are left with a dirty house. This time, however, I busted my rear end last week and moved furniture around to vacuum under and behind everything. On Monday and Tuesday, I was working behind and around the packer to wash floors, vacuum cobwebs, and wipe down kitchen cupboards. I had a lady scheduled to come clean my kitchen and bathrooms yesterday afternoon and did not cancel her when the truck got moved up. By the time she finished those, they had removed the last of our things to be loaded, so she was able to sweep the floor that had been under our bookshelves and give a nice mopping of the living space. Meanwhile, I did touch up vacuuming on the rugs, and the last thing loaded on the truck was my Dyson. The truck pulled away from a clean house.
And that’s as perfect as it gets.
OK, so my back is killing me, I boxed everybody’s pillows forgetting we would need them for camping in the empty house, and I fear I will forget the laundry in the dryer. It’s still perfect.
And that’s why even I, the optimist (Pollyanna), am certain the truck will explode en route.