cold feet. a breakdown. a panic attack.

well, i had all that yesteday.

i walked into the front door of my new apartment (I'm moving in on Saturday), and something in me shifted. Not a huge, 180-degree shift. Just subtle-enough shift for me to hold inside. Or so I thought. Then I accidentally called my old roomie and friend, Em, in DC, and it all came pouring out--like a rainstorm, literally. But it helped, and I think i'm startiing to figure myself out more. You'd think, after 30 years, I'd know me a lot better.

Moving to a new place feels like an end to my mobility. An end to wanting to pack up and move whenever the mood strikes. My co-workers used to joke with me about moving so often--a few months in Queens, then a year in Brooklyn, followed by a few months near Columbia...and finally almost 2 years in Harlem. I thought I was cured. Then I moved to DC...again, almost two years. Not bad. Then, on top of getting a new job, I guess I got a taste for the road...for mobility, again. And it's all fine and dandy when you're subletting and you can forsee the end. But permanence is what sickens and frightens me, and I don't know why. Or maybe I do, but like many things, I'm afraid to say it. Saying it makes it true, doesn't it?

Well, simply put, I've never fully unpacked. I've got my life in boxes, and bags. I always had a packed box...some kids have a security blanket--I had a suitcase. A packed box. If I unpack, I don't know what will happen. But maybe hopefully, it will be home.

Before getting off the phone with Em, I promised I'd unpack EVERYTHING this time, and maybe paint the walls a beautiful, muted, mustard yellow. I told her I'd even christen the new place by sitting on the couch, painting my nails (bright red!)--a true sign that i'm "at home." I'm even planning to put a tomato plant on the roof. I hope and want these plans to materialize. Wish me luck...wish me fearlessness.