Four years ago, I moved into an apartment that made me swoon. It was on the second floor, and the balcony outside my back door gave me a view of soft, slight rolling hills and, if I looked to my right, a duck pond. On Saturday mornings, I would be awakened to the quiet “quack quack quack quack” as they waddled past. I imagined they were asking for food, and I keep a loaf of old bread on a book shelf next to the door so I can feed them whenever they ask.
The apartment was easily twice the size of my previous apartment, with a comparatively large living area and a bathroom for two. (Seriously, even though it was a one-bedroom apartment, there are two sinks in there.)
The complex gave me a car port, so I never had to shovel snow or scrape ice from my windshield, and they provided an emergency service 24/7. I’ve called them when raucous parties awakened me at 3 a.m., and I’ve called them in the dredges of February, when the wind is so cold it freezes your nose hair, because my next door neighbor wasn’t home and he left his dog on his balcony, and the way the dog was barking and whining for 90 minutes straight, you knew that poor little guy was slowly freezing to death. (I saw the dog a few days later. He was fine. But still, I hoped the apartment rent-a-cops turned the bastard owner over to the authorities.)
When I moved into my apartment four years ago, I had a lot of emotional baggage. I was very broken from an atrocious experience with an ex-boyfriend, and I had a new boyfriend who — though now living 3 1/2 hours away — fixed me and helped me load that baggage.
I had very little literal baggage. My dad, the aforementioned now-long-distance boyfriend and I caravaned from my old home to the new home, unloaded the U-Haul, and watched movies from Blockbuster on all the pillows and blankets I had, because the sole pieces of furniture that moved with me were the kitchen table my parents had when I was born, and my bed.
My lease is up in mid June and I, finally, am moving. Because while I’ve loved my little apartment, I am so deathly sick of throwing away rent that I die a little every month when I write that check out. And while the space was once nearly too big to fill, it’s now overflowing with furniture and stuff and jewelry and jewelry and oh, my God, jewelry.
While the literal baggage I move is about tenfold from when I moved in, the figurative baggage is non-existent. The long-distance boyfriend is long-gone (though I remain impossibly grateful for how much he fixed me, because he did) and this new, very short-distance boyfriend has been my love for nearly 2 1/2 years.
I’m not leaving town or anything, just moving a whopping 2.2 miles away. My dad is coming to visit the weekend my lease is up to help me move the big shit and deal with the U-Haul. I told him, “Dad! We’re only moving me down the street! We’re not crossing state lines!!” It’s exciting, trust me.
And it’s palpable. It’s kind of fluffy, like cotton candy, but without the sticky. It’s warm, an electric blanket on that cold February night. And it’s content, a knowledge that life is finally moving on, and the real adventure can begin.
All of this is just a very, very long-winded way to say: I have more than 200 items in my shop, and pretty please don’t make me move all of it. I’ve marked about 1/3 of Jac & Elsie at 30 percent off for a moving sale (that’s 70 items. SEVENTY!). This is a temporary moving sale — as in, the prices will eventually increase back to normal — but I hope desperately to clear out some inventory, making the move easier and making some space for new designs.
But mainly, let’s be honest, it’s for making the move easier.
And now, some pictures of my favorites from the Moving Sale section (click on any of the pics for more):