I’m back in Chicago to put things in storage. This sounds easier than it’s turning out to be.
Forget that I have stuff — and “stuff” is exactly what it is, material possessions I’ve accumulated over the years with some nod to meaningful decisions but mostly just out of a misplaced desire to get a good deal (which I have and do) on cool things — that needs to be sorted. Or that I have this vague idea that I’ll magically be able to discern which “stuff” to keep and which “stuff” to give away/sell/throw out.
What I’m stuck on tonight is what 24-hour period I should choose to rent a U-Haul pickup truck for hauling said amorphous “stuff” to the Salvation Army, Marketplace Books, and the recycling center.
Do I choose Friday morning through Saturday morning? (I have the kids and want to hit a meeting Saturday morning; how does this fit in?) Thursday afternoon through Friday afternoon? (I have a waxing appointment that somehow I forgot to put on my calendar and I can’t find the email reminder so I can’t really with any certainty know what my schedule is like tomorrow afternoon.) Saturday around noon to Sunday around noon? (That eats into my time with the boys, though any 24-hour period would do so this weekend.)
And of course this stupid — it is, after all, ridiculous — indecision over a relatively minor detail of my “putting things into storage” propels me into an entirely new universe of second-guessing and doubt and whatever other sorts of emotions people feel when putting 22 years of their lives into boxes and into storage for the indeterminate future.
It’s normal, I know. It will get done, I know. I’ll figure it all out, I know.
I just need to pick a time. Everything else comes later. It’s gonna be a hell of a weekend, though. I’ll be glad to be back in NYC when it’s all over.