Everyone: Hi, Nomad.
(takes sip of tepid coffee from Styrofoam cup, thinks longingly of dark chocolate and espresso from old life)
It’s obviously become a problem. At first I thought I could take it or leave it, preferably leave it. I grew up in a family that moved a lot. My dad was a school teacher, but somehow we moved houses and cities and even countries fairly regularly. “I’ll never do this to my own children,” I vowed with 10 year old intensity.
No, I’m not blaming my parents for my problem, but thank you for that suggestion. I’m just trying to give background, explain how I got started. Some kids have parents who model drink or drugs and teach their kids to steal; mine modeled cardboard boxes and new schools and the wide-open vistas of the highway, and taught me how to sit on suitcases to close them.
In 2001 when our oldest was five, we moved to Mauritania. When he was eight, we went to France; when he was nine, we spent a summer in the US and then went back to Mauritania. On his 12th birthday, we moved out of our house and then back to the US; when he was 13 and 2 months, we came to Morocco.
On August 3rd, we pared our life down to 10 suitcases (don’t be TOO impressed; we left a lot of boxes in storage) and began a life of nomadicity in earnest. With that in mind, we have moved 6 times in the last 5 months.
I only realized how addicted I was becoming to this lifestyle with the last move. I didn’t even worry about what was left behind. I packed up in a mere afternoon. We moved for 2 weeks with only 2 carloads, and that included food items. Can’t find your hairbrush? No problem; use your fingers. Going to school in dirty jeans? Who will even notice? Just say you fell on the way, trying to dodge a taxi or something.
But is it a problem, or just a lifestyle? Am I unable to stop? I offer this for your consideration: this afternoon, I unpacked and packed at the same time. We’re going to Madrid this weekend (required by visa issues) and we’re flying easyjet, which means one carry-on per person and no checked luggage. Piece of cake.
I began to be concerned when I noticed how my black Levi cords are fitting. Or not so fitting, as the case may be. I notice that I justify copious amounts of chocolate for myself at times like this. And I wondered, am I moving so often just so that I can eat guilt-free? We arrived back at our current house-sitting situation to find a half-eaten tin of Almond Roca and a note: Enjoy.
No, it was really a command, wasn’t it? “Enjoy the Almond Roca,” said the note, rather hypnotically actually. So I did.
I enjoyed rather a lot of it, actually. Also the Starbucks French Roast (the house smelled HEAVENLY this morning) and the molasses. I made cookies. I made spaghetti and garlic bread. And, what with all the moving, not to mention all the rain, I didn’t go to the store this week, so we had no fresh stuff for salad. Just carbs, no vegetables or fruit.
Perhaps I’m trying to make myself so big that I no longer move? (Puts fingers together, purses lips, nods thoughtfully) That’s possible. Very possible.
(blinks meaningfully) But I’d like to be able to just stop. And I will, promise. I just have two more bars of chocolate to get through, and the cookies to finish.
You know, I really could quit anytime.
This doesn’t really qualify for “Very Funny Friday” but I’m posting anyway in a pitiful attempt to be close to Sue, who really is very funny.