Raise your hand if you really, really dislike moving! (My hand is raised high in the air.)
Two weeks before the wedding, Mr. Wallaby and I were busy as bees (teehee) lugging all of my belongings from my apartment to my car, driving the 15-minute distance between my apartment and his bachelor pad house, and combining our possessions in our new shared home. (OK, confession time: my possessions consist mostly of clothes, books, college textbooks, way too many cosmetics, and the last three years’ issues of The New Yorker.)
My trusty Subaru has been through four moves (not including my move from Seattle to Houston, which was covered by my company’s relocation package). Every year of college my best friends and I rented a different house off campus; at some point during the year, we would discover something pretty bad about the house (e.g., mold problems, super-creepy neighbors, loud frat next door) and we’d scout out a new rental house when the lease was up. And so every summer we would bribe our strongest male friends with pizza, and with their help we’d move all of our stuff from one house to the next.
When I met Mr. Wallaby, I was living in a two-bedroom apartment with an old friend I had interned with. Mr. W helped me move yet again to a new (cheaper) apartment a year ago, and I’ve spent the last year rooming with Bridesmaid C, one of my BFFs from high school. In October, I moved for the final time as a single girl. Mr. W is a lucky guy to inherit all of this stuff: