At the risk of sounding so very California, I need to find my zen place and get cracking on this moving adventure. Problem is, I love my apartment so much (propped up in bed right now next to my sunny picture window with the pine trees out front) that I want to just transport it to Colorado without moving anything. "What are you smoking?" Dave asked on the phone last night. "You'd better get moving." He's going to be here Sunday night, which is a good thing, as he's a master packer, organizer, and motivator. And I'm in dire need. What is it about moving and the prospect of boxing, taping, and going through all my shit that inspires such fear that I'm like a deer in the headlights? I have moved so many times it's not even funny and I always feel the same way until I just plunge in. OK then, there's my answer. I am off to face my fears, as they say here in the Bay Area.
