One week ago we moved into our new home. This involved a number of lengthy and not-so-exciting processes: packing up and cleaning up the old place, moving boxes, taking boxes out of the truck we just put them in, unpacking, organizing, cleaning. We bought a place full of character (I love that) in an awesome ‘hood (you can see Nose Hill from our front door!). The home we own is … a little retro. While I find a number of this little homes idiosyncrasies charming, I also see a very long list forming of “To Dos”; a home project gallery that currently seems never ending. I tend to deal with this stress by having small tantrums, not unlike that of a child.
Being halfway in and halfway unpacked means that there are certain things that haven’t landed in a permanent resting place. One of those things is my pants.
I know I have them; I packed them. I remember rolling up the coloured jeans, my black dress pants, my Saturday denim. I remember it clearly- I just can’t remember where exactly they landed. I know they are somewhere in the suitcases, boxes or bags. I just don’t know where.
Instead of having what my sister-in-law refers to as a Stage Five Meltdown, I am trying to find it funny. And at the very least, it’s an opportunity to wear a few skirts and dresses.