Because I didn’t start this blog at the very beginning of my move, I’m going to hop in a time machine to give some context. Maybe this is boring, but I’m chronicling it for future space generations who will get in a pod and be teleported to their new cities. (Who am I joking, the world’s gonna go up in flames in like five years.)
April 7, 2017 was my last day at my job. I spent the following week packing boxes and day drinking, canceling my cable and crying that I’d never see the ladies who worked at “my” Walgreens ever again.
On April 15, I flew to Ireland for one last craic of a trip before my big move. I married two very dear friends. I went to Amsterdam. I flew home.
A day and a half after I returned to Chicago, movers came and loaded all of my stuff onto a truck, to be delivered to Texas sometime the following week. I closed the door on the condo where I’d lived for 12 years for the last time, and walked to a bar where my silly and wonderful and loving friends threw me a goodbye bash. I drowned in my favorite beer and only cried twice.
And the next day, Jeff and I got in the car and started driving to Austin. I shed zero tears driving under that Chicago Skyway sign, with my favorite skyline in the rearview mirror. I was excited, exhausted, hung over and happy.
Okay, then it rained all day when we drove to Memphis and we wanted to kill each other, so that blush wore off pretty fast. Moving’s a process, you know?