MOVING SUCKS

Thursday night, New York City.

Me and the B and his troupe of work friends had dinner at The Fry Pan, a restaurant on the Hudson River in Chelsea up on a boat about three stories tall.

We ate burgers and fries and drank milkshakes and looked at people and watched boats on the water. We talked about New York and and I imagined what it would be like to live in Chelsea and to not live in Idaho.

And then after we ate, on the way down the stairs, I fell. I fell down the stairs, knocked over a velvet rope, and then I just laid there for a minute. It was kind of like . . . yyyyyep.

Yesterday we drove around town with my parents in our new kicky ride looking at the neighborhood construction going up (my parents' favorite hobby), when I fell out of the car. No really, I fell out of it. I opened the door, and took a slow-motion nose dive toward the ground.

Brandon saw me fall and rushed over to make sure I was okay. I was, and as I was telling him so, and brushing gravel off my pants and picking grass out of my hair, these huge gushing sobs came completely out of nowhere. So then I gave up, and just sat there and cried. Kind of hard, actually. I cried for the frustration of leaving somewhere you love, for being an adult in your childhood home, for the stress of moving and trying to be perfect for everyone and for the disappointment of failing miserably.

This morning I decided to drive through our old neighborhood in Lake Oswego. We lived there before we moved to Brooklyn. It feels like a million years ago.

I remembered this gorgeous view we used to have of the temple, the temple where the Holbs and I were married once-upon-a-time.

So I bought myself a sodee and I drove down to the old apartment and I jumped out and I walked down the little stone path around to the back of our old place. And as I was walking down some pretty tame steps, I completely biffed it. Face first. I dropped the soda, which exploded on impact, sending gushes of cold coke into my face. I laid there on the ground a second, sort of pondering things, and then I stood up, my hair sticky with drink and ground-parts and pointing in all directions, and I limped back to my kicky ride and drove myself home.

Moving sucks.