Ah, the day of reckoning, the final countdown, the gargantuanly supreme moment of life-altering totality.
The move out.
Or move in, I guess, but that all depends on your half-full/half-empty stance of life psychologists seem to rave about. Some see the glass half-full and some see the glass half-empty, but one idealistic genius, sarcasm semi-intended, saw millions of post-secondary minds mulling over a basic analogy for optimism and pessimism, a subject many people could have understood with a simple:
“Some people are happy. Some people are sad. That’s all folks.”
And then the Looney Tunes logo would play them out and everyone would return to life a little happier and a little smarter with a skip in their step and warmth in their heart.
But that’s not how life plays out. And that’s not what this blog should be about either.
All right, the move out. Or move in. Damn my repetitive mind!
Okay, I’ll paint the picture.
I woke up in my childhood bed for the last time. My alarm was set but I knew I’d get up before then. How can you sleep when you have that feeling? That jittery feeling of doing something monumental. That transcending feeling of adrenaline, nostalgia and fear all pounded together with a hammer. It’s the one time I feel like a president, waiting in the aisles to deliver a jaw-dropping speech, with words that skip past prejudice and dig straight for the emotions instead. That’s the feeling. I looked at the suitcase I’d packed four days ago. How much more could I analyze and decipher it?
“What am I missing?” I’d ask myself. I knew there was something, something off. It was like I had left a $50 at a restaurant instead of a $20. My planned 20% tip felt more like 200% now….
…
The tips are a simile for life.
But the feeling was still there. I had goose bumps, toad toes, iguana elbows, and I have no idea what those last two are either. That’s how crazy it felt. Screw butterflies, I had walruses in my stomach. I wasn’t me.
I walked through the house. It was leaving me. I was the one moving away but I wasn’t leaving, the house was. My framed Gr. 3 painting was moving on. It’s a damn good painting so that’s a big deal to me. Seriously, I was a little Rembrandt.
Will I post a picture? Hell no.
Why? Because in truth, it’s not that good, but as a token of my childhood, it’s a masterpiece.
And so the time came that my future lay on the driveway, ready to be loaded to our gold minivan with the one broken door. It’s a weird feeling to see your life in material form. And as the car pulled out of the driveway, I looked back at my true home one more time. I looked at the drainpipe I shattered during a “throw it over the house” contest. I looked at the porch where I’d always sit in the rain and watch lightning, like an old fisherman admiring his catch after a long struggle. And then, as quick as the turn of a corner, I had moved out.
Thus began my crazy adventure.
2 responses to “The Move.”