My soon-to-be new apartment is Tiny with a capital “T” that rhymes with “P” and that stands for POOL! Any Music Man fans? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Although small it is 300 square feet of fabulous quirk, so of course, I love it and cannot wait to move in next week. But packing has been a challenge.
Ask anyone: parents, friends, current housemates, and they will tell you that I cannot possibly find more things to get rid of. Nearly every weekend I’m rummaging through my closet looking for items that, according to the wise words of Mari Kondo, no longer bring me “joy”. Last weekend I proved everyone wrong taking yet another carload (a literal carload) of clothes, lamps, kitchen utensils, etc. to Goodwill. Sure, I probably could have sold some of it but consignment shops make me anxious and I’ve watched too many Criminal Minds episodes to ever agree to meet someone from Craigslist. So to Goodwill, it goes.
The entire downsizing process has been surprising stress-free. Thanks to my anxious mind and a dash of undiagnosed OCD I’ve crafted lists outlining each step of the process, what needs to happen and when, down to the order the furniture should be moved in. At the moment my living room is staged with boxes, all organized and ready to go.
However, my cats, Sven and Olaf, have not been helpful.
I’m constantly tracking down their toys, placing them in their designated bin, only to find them strewn about the house mere minutes later. They are basically toddlers. I’m guessing, of course, I haven’t lived with a toddler… A few days ago a placed one of their cat trees (yes, they have two…) by the back door to take on my next donation run. I chose this particular “tree” because they seldom used it. But alas, now that it has been staged for removal they will not stop climbing on it. Sorry dudes, cuts have to be made.
While thoroughly organized, I’m not holding my breath about my move. You can only plan for so much when two, rambunctious, toddler-cats are involved…