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I’m moving houses, that is, not cities or anything. Neighborhoods, yes, but nothing too drastic. About eight miles north of where I am now. I just counted, and in my lifetime, I have lived in ten houses, two dorms, and one condo in four different cities. I have had, not counting family, thirteen different roommates and one roommate’s dog (that was short lived). It would appear that I move a lot and that people don’t like living with me. I don’t really believe that last part but I mean, look at the figures, not really sure if I can defend myself.
So I am soon moving again. Into a neighborhood I’m looking forward to getting to know and out of house that has been overtaken by mice. Ceaseless construction+wooded area=rodent party at our place.
This time, I’m being organzied and actually packing many of my things in boxes. With labels.
At least it’s labeled.
I’ve often said something I’m not sure I mean, and that is that I can’t imagine living in any one place for a very long time. I do mean it in the sense that imaging being in one place for more than a handful of years makes me want to run for the hills. But I don’t mean it in that I’ve now lived in Nashville for nearly 2.5 years and I do not feel like running for the hills.
Makes me wonder, am I beginning to appreciate that thing called stability? I don’t know when this appreciation started making its way into my psyche but now that I am dreading the packing of my things and learning of new streets and places, I’m realizing it has. Maybe I’ve gotten just enough long of a taste of it that I’m realizing it’s not so terrible. I don’t want to spit it out.
And who knows, maybe one of these days not too long from now I’ll finally be able to say “Yes, I could see myself here for the next five years.”
But ach! Not yet. Baby steps.