So, I am no longer a New Yorker. I now live in Alexandria, Virginia. And it's official-- I may not know my zip code yet, but I did change my Facebook profile.
Moving was...an experience. Don't get me wrong, I have moved a lot. Probably an unnatural amount, actually. And not just down the street, either-- I've been a part of at least two continental moves. My first move was when I was an infant, about five months old. My parents, who had moved from Brazil to Memphis, TN before I was born, were returning home, baby in tow. As a child, I moved three more times-- first, to my grandparents, then to our own apartment, then from our original apartment to a bigger apartment, and then from that big apartment to our house out in the country when I was six. We lived at the house for awhile, but when I was twelve came the second continental move-- back to Memphis, TN.
I remember my mom being stressed about the move, but to me, it seemed okay. Other than the fact that she made me give up all of my childhood toys (with the unassailable argument that no twelve year old needs 25 Barbie dolls plus the Barbie DreamHouse and Convertible), I didn't have much to do. I picked the one toy I got to take (I wanted my bike, was told that was impractical to take along, and ended up with a box of books. So boring. Nevermind that my little brother got to take his motorized motorcycle. I still miss my silver bike) and the rest was up to my mom. We actually got to live in a hotel for about a month, which was pretty cool. Then, my parents, sister and brother went on a trip together for a month, and my baby sister and I stayed with my grandmother in Brazil-- I, because I wanted to maximize my time with my friends, and she, because my father deemed it impractical to take a two-year-old to the World Cup in California. Julia and I always did get the shaft. Even with all that, we beat our furniture and boxes to Memphis by a good month, in any case. My father rented a furnished house for us to fill in the time, which was cool, except that the family in that house, while a family of 6, was a family of 2 adults, one 10 year old, and 3 toddlers/babies. So I spent about a week sharing a loft twin bed with my little brother before my mom had a breakdown and insisted we move to our new house. Where we had, I kid you not, mattresses on the floor; a TV hooked up to cable (it was the World Cup, after all, and no self-respecting Brazilian will do without TV during this crucial time, never mind the lack of furniture); and five lawn chairs. Julia got the shaft again.
We lived at the same house in Memphis for awhile, and then I went to college with a couple of suitcases. That was 2001. Since then, I have moved at least once a year. I'm not kidding. I moved every year in college. That's 4 times (conservative estimate; I'm not counting the summer I moved to New York or the summer I lived in Brazil, since those were intended to be temporary). Then I moved to New York, into a law dorm. I decided I hated that, and when one of my good high school friends decided to move to New York, I moved out of the dorm into an apartment with her. That's 6 moves. Then, I moved into my own, very tiny apartment (which I technically shared with my sister for a few months). Then, I moved in with my boyfriend. 8 moves. Then, we moved to our first Brooklyn apartment. Nine moves. Then, we moved to our second Brooklyn apartment. Ten moves. Now, we moved to Virginia. Eleven moves. ELEVEN. Since college.
You'd think I'd be good at this by now. So why am I staring at a ridiculous amount of boxes? I can't imagine anyone needing this stuff. I mean, I'm happy to chuck it out the window right now...except my new neighbors might frown upon coming home to a heap of cardboard boxes blocking the driveway.
