I love moving, I really do. I owe it to moving around a lot as a military brat. I love moving into a new house and unpacking and getting things ready. I also love organising and culling and packing. I don’t particularly care for moving said items once they’re all packed, mostly because I don’t like sweating, (and I’m a terrible packer whose boxes always weigh at least 50 lbs) but the before and after parts are some of my favourite parts. Probably because I’m a closeted control freak and obsessive cleaning and organising is my go-to coping mechanism so hey. I could have worse personality traits.

But speaking of worse personality traits, my nostalgia has been in overtime lately and I’ve been trying to remind myself that I will miss this place once it’s gone. Because the same thing happens every time I move, without fail: I get so excited for the new place and the fresh start that I don’t think about saying goodbye. And being the sap that I am, I’ll start to miss the old place like it was a person I knew and never got to spend enough time with.

So today, we managed to move the moving mess from room to room so Joel could take photos of the property for the rental agency. And in the split moments when there wasn’t bags of donate clothes and piles of shoes or stacks of camera gear and books and packing trash and magazines and fans and de-humidifiers and clothes and old mail and what not – the place looked sparkling. And for a split second – I almost felt like I didn’t want to leave.

With its sweaty kitchen.

And its tiny-mirror-no-fan-and-no-way-to-not-splash-water-everywhere-while-showering-bathroom

And its no air conditioning.

And its one power outlet per room electrical snakes.

And its uncovered-hunstman-and-magpie-haven-balcony.

And its mildew-prone closet.

Despite all its flaws, it’s been a constant for the entire time I’ve known Joel. I met and bonded with him in this living room. We got to know each other through Skypes in this apartment. I wrote letters and sent care packages to this address for almost 2 years. It was our first home. So I’ve been taking the time every day to be happy in the memories I have of this place, to see if I can lessen the severity of when/if I’m hit with a landslide of feels on Jan.30 (spoiler alert: invevitable)

As Joel reads over my shoulder saying, “it’s just a house, people move all time.” And we’re only moving 15 minutes away. But still. I can’t help but feel sorry for Joel’s cold black heart sentimental, like I’m leaving an old friend. I’ll miss our big green trees and seeing fireworks from the balcony. I’ll miss how good the sunsets are and how quiet and slowly the living room fills with daylight. I’ll miss the window in the bathroom and how it’s the perfect ledge for a shower beer. I’ll miss listening to the bats in the tree outside our window. And I’ll miss that coffee shop and the barista who knows every detail about my life and how I take my coffee but whose name I still don’t know (I’m awkward).

But, we’re on to new things. And new trees and new windows and new spiders and new home offices and new day light. And we’ll have fantastic memories of our first little landing pad.

Thanks, #9. You’ve been a good pal.