Preparing for my RTW trip: it aint easy being responsible

Money by AMagill.

Creative Commons license. Photo: Amagill

January 12, 2010

It aint easy being responsible.

Sort of.

Being responsible is something we are taught from childhood. You take your toys out of their bin? You put them back when you are done. You sneak out of the house with your gaggle of girlfriends in the middle of the night? You get caught. And grounded. You miss the due date for your rent? You pay that, plus some. Yeah … you get it.

But, for some reason, when preparing for this adventure for which I am about to embark, suddenly I have even more responsibilities. Not only do I have work, bills, the norm, but now it is my responsibility to prepare for what I am leaving behind.

I have to make sure there is enough money in my account to cover the cost of my storage unit (I am opting not to sell my belongings simply because I could never afford to re-buy them upon my return to the US); find a responsible and wonderful animal-lover to foster my cats (because there is no way I would give them  up, they’re my children); cancel utilities; break my lease; find a reputable mover; confirm my air reservations; change insurance policies; purchase travel/health insurance; and more.

Sometimes it seems as if the list of what I have to get done is never-ending.

An example of supreme responsible-ness was today.

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Preparing for my RTW trip: packing for a move


January 19, 2010

Tonight I am packing boxes. Big, monster wardrobe boxes. I don’t like packing. At all.

And this time, its gross.

My apartment is one of four units in a house from the 1920s. It’s charming. It’s unique. It’s got some serious character. Including the basement storage unit, which is basically six wooden pallets wide guarded by some fierce rusty chicken wire —   likely installed just after the house was built. The rest of the basement is a mishmash of secret rooms, dirt floors and one humidifier which, for some reason, sits nearly immovable directly in front of my shoddily secure storage door. Argh.

Back in September 2009, there was the Great Atlanta Flood. Luckily, I was living it up in Croatia at the time (I was actually in Split when I saw the status updates on Facebook) when I caught wind of the rising water closing I-75/85.

The dirty, dark old basement in my cute little house was not spared.

And, tonight I got to experience the leftovers of the flood firsthand when I dragged these giant boxes out of my “storage unit.”


Lots and lots of mold. Taking over most of the boxes. Ruining their re-usability.

The hardest part about moving for me is the fact that I have to do it solo. I’ve said it once and I will say it again — moving is not made for people who are single. I am happily single, but every time I move, I find myself hoping, wishing, praying for an extra pair of hands. Hell, one extra hand would suffice. Tonight, there was no one who felt obliged to help me move (and no one within shouting distance) when I took on the wardrobe boxes.

Last year when I was filling my storage unit, I had the brilliant idea to take two wardrobe boxes and cram them into a third box to save space. I must have had my dad with me (or some momentary superhuman strength) when I did this because there is no way I could have jammed the boxes into the other box solo.

Those pain-in-the-ass boxes were barely maneuverable, ridiculously hard to grip and my arms are unable to even wrap around the width of them.

To make it worse, the mold and thick layer of dust and grime was now rubbed all over me. I can only assume I was a sight to anyone Midtown/Virginia Highlands who may have been strolling to the park: dressed in work clothes, purse still on my arm, keys dangling from my pinky, carrying those massive, spider-crusted boxes out of the basement, outside, up my crooked flight of concrete stairs and (finally, breathlessly) into my apartment.

I’ve only had three big moves in my life: Maryland to Las Vegas; Las Vegas to Atlanta; and now, Atlanta to Maryland. They each have their own distinct place in my heart. This one holds an extra special sweet place, not only for the bright and exciting next steps in my life, but also for the mold that is now permeating my lungs and my belongings which will live on while I travel in a climate-controlled storage unit.

Ahhh … moving is grand.

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