I documented the recent move. Here is the first part.
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The night before was blurry, and during its final moments it was clear that I had been moving with the sort of haste that comes specifically from the desperate need to get to bed. Or at least to lie down, preferably someplace soft, before consciousness is lost. Never assume you won’t fall asleep simply because you are standing. I’ve had wicked bedside jellyknees. It’s a sloppy state of affairs typically incurred by either a long day of honest physical exertion, or by blithely ingesting toxic chemicals. Coordination has no place there. Nor foresight.
Perhaps a little foresight. Orthodontic precaution.
I’ll brush my teeth no matter what. It’s an act deeply ingrained in me, and it punctuates the end of each task. Eat a meal? Brush teeth. Go to sleep? Brush teeth. Wake up? Brush teeth. Have a thought? Brush teeth. Get blood on your teeth from brushing teeth? Brush teeth. A shark could be gnawing on my gizzard, or an executioner calling my name, and I’d still take the time to brush my teeth before dying. Like the Jezebel of dental hygiene. Turns out, brushing your teeth 13,007 times a day isn’t actually dentally beneficial.
The problem was that after I did this, I carelessly tossed the toothpaste tube in this little bucket in which other varied toiletries reside. The toothpaste was not as closed as I had thought. Mostly. Almost. But not completely. Let this be a lesson. Never assume toothpaste has your best interest in mind. Toothpaste is selfish and irresponsible.
I woke up the next morning feeling not as great as I would have had I not tried to drown my assorted sorrows. I don’t remember the voyage from bedroom to bathroom, nor do I recall fishing clean clothing out of the closet, or showering. I know these things happened, by my mind didn’t actually wake up until I heard a loud knock on the front door. Suddenly everything was crystal clear.
I had dragged my sorry ass out of bed for a purpose.
See, Jeremy and I are moving. We’ve been in this rented house for a few years, and while I am very fond of it, the time has come to move into a space that is not a financial black hole. To be honest, we just moved so we'd have a bigger porch that could properly fit Jeremy's daily Amazon box load. The new house is large. I’m excited and nervous about it. I will spend a substantial amount of time being generally strange within its walls.
This freshly baked house is ten or fifteen minutes away. We can move a lot of the stuff, almost all of it, but the furniture is another story. So we called a moving company, scheduled an appointment for an appraisal, and that’s who was knocking on the door while I drunkenly put pants on.
My wet hair was over my face, down my back. I have a lot of hair and when it’s wet I look sort of feral. The knocking continued. I had pants on. That was a good thing. I was well on my way to being dressed. There was a clean shirt slung over the doorknob. I pulled it on before drying my body. It was uncomfortable. Then, last thing, I tackled my hair. It takes about three seconds for me to do my hair. I tie it in a knot. Then I clip it to my head. Like science, it is. I did just that, but what I hadn’t realized was that my hair clip had been marinating in a massive glob of toothpaste overnight.
I only realized that my hand was sticky when I shook hers. After our hands unlocked I had a meaningful moment of introspection while trying to figure out what the sticky was. I had no idea it had come from me until I discreetly smelled my palm, then felt the back of my head.
I know she felt it. She HAD to have. That woman was a soldier. A straight-faced poker playing master of stoicism. Her hand had to be covered with wet shlorbs of toothpaste, but you’d never know it.
She remarked upon the darkness in the house. I tend to keep the lights off and curtains drawn when I’m home alone. I’m not sure why, I usually don’t even think about it unless I need to draw or read. So accordingly, my eyes have become accustomed to very low light. If you ever see me outside and I’m making a face like someone is rubbing lemons in my eyes, it’s because it sort of feels like it. Anyway, one by one I turned the lights on, squinting at the light while answering some basic furniture themed questions. The whole time all I could do is think about the toothpaste. I could smell it. I could feel the grainy residue on the web between my thumb and index finger.
My head smells of mint.
The sentence kept looping through my head.
Every time she’d ask about something, I’d answer, then that sentence would replay.
I don’t typically have thoughts in sentences like that. Very rarely. So, when I do, it’s actually kind of distracting. Especially since the pace of the thought was:
My head.
Smells.
Of mint.
We hurried through the house while I pointed what we wanted them to take. She made a list, gave an estimate. I signed some papers, left a little toothpaste on her pen.
She left, never once acknowledged the crust on her hand.