I started writing this particular newsletter a little over a month ago, when it came to my attention that the lease I fully believed ended June 30 actually, wouldn't-you-believe-it, no-chance-no-way, this-is-fine-this-is-absolutely-fine, ended May 31 instead.
Obviously, I have been Super Chill about this. Tranquil, even. Not a single feather has been ruffled.
Everyone says this, I know, but I hate moving. I read somewhere years ago that moves and divorces were life's most stressful endeavors. I haven't experienced divorce (yet!), but every time I've had to move, I have felt the kind of dread typically reserved for watching a Paul Mescal movie on a Sunday night. I hate logistical planning, I hate strangers touching my things, I hate the bereavement of a safe place between one home and the next. As I gradually prepare to vacate the premises, I hate the feeling of growing emptiness where there once was a full life.
(Behind my utter disdain for moving, there is probably something or other about having immigrated twice as a child, but fortunately for all of us we will not be undergoing regression analysis today.)
I am also, and this is important, very lazy. The last four years, I have kept renewing my lease in large part because of my deep commitment to inertia. I loooove being an object at rest. Stability soothes me. But I've come to reluctantly recognize the benefit of occasionally allowing a force (see: the end of my lease) to upset my comfortable little routine, even if it causes a few weeks of unfortunate upheaval and sore muscles (ibuprofen … the pill that you are!).
Unrelatedly, it sure is interesting, to say the least, that considering how badly I handle stress, I refuse to plan ahead in a way that will allow me to, oh I don’t know, reduce stress. One of those twists of fate, I guess. Nothing I could possibly do about it.
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