I’m surrounded by boxes.
Tons of boxes. Triple the amount and my furniture are in a storage unit – which barely closed.
My clothes are squeezed in a 12 ft closet space. The rest are wrapped in a white bedsheet, resembling a massive marshmallow. The rest-rest – oh yes, there’s more – are stuffed into a drawer, waiting to be hand-washed. And the still-rest are somewhere.
Of course, that’s the box with my dorm sets, forcing me to wear oversized t-shirts to bed. I know I need to purge. Especially when I have clothes from high school.
The boxes labelled “H” are home. However, the contents are a mystery. But, my yearbooks have been found, and my other book on Sir John A. Macdonald is somewhere. Skating medals, found. Skating bear, somewhere. Tripod, found. Favourite coffee cup, MIA.
And my chest of drawers is sitting in the living room entrance. Pretty sure that’s a fire hazard.
I will miss Arborg. I enjoyed the parades, fireworks, walking around late, the sunsets, etc. But after four years and five months, I moved. Again, without a job or a plan, primarily because I needed to remove myself from a toxic situation.
I’d been thinking about moving since spring, 2018. I was applying to jobs across Canada and the US. A reporter position in the Yukon. An online reporter in Toronto. Entertainment reporter for TMZ. For real. Weatherperson in North Dakota and an editor in Minnesota. Even for the Weather Network. Hey, they liked my Tweet. But, alas, no takers.
For now, I’m surrounded by boxes as I attempt to figure out my life.
I think the first step is purging the marshmallow. And everything else will fall into place.
It always does.