I now understand why moving is the third most traumatic experience in life (next to divorce and death of a loved one).  From coordinating the actual move (with actual movers — a first!) to installing the final brushed steel cabinet handle, I was there for it all, willingly or not. I’ve never had to participate in a “real” move before, since the last time I moved was at age 9. (Dorm rooms are also much easier to evacuate than entire one-bedrooms.) I thought the actual transporting and unloading of belongings would take the longest, but I clearly overestimated the design potential of Ikea furnishings and underestimated my roommate’s disdain for all things generic and mass-produced. As a result, we wound up at four or five different stores and probably took as long to pick out four pieces of furniture as we did to unpack all our wordly possessions.

Discounting the pile of laundry that currently blocks access to my kitchen, Patrick, Hamlet, and I are now pretty much moved into our new place in the Back Bay. I wish I had live-blogged the ordeal, but Patrick probably would’ve locked me in the utility closet had I done that while he built shelving. (I literally haven’t been this off-line since I went to Cambodia last summer.) In conclusion, I can’t vouch for divorce or death, but this was undoubtedly the one of the most stressful event of my young adulthood, and this comes from someone who, at the ripe age of 22, has already gone through a nude photo debacle. If I had to choose between that or moving again, I’d almost opt for the former.