The move went smoothly, my new place was clear of mess and liveable by the end of the first day (a promise I made to myself because clutter stresses me out and I did NOT want to wake up to stacks of boxes everywhere the following morning).
Though by ‘liveable’ I don’t mean that everything was all done and dusted. I’m not magic!
I mean that I had Carl (my coffee machine) ready to go for the morning (along with coffee, mug, milk, sugar: priority 1!), the kitchen was unpacked, the fridge had food in it, the living and dining room furniture were in place, my bed was assembled and had clean sheets, the basic bathroom necessities were in the ensuite, and I had clothes to wear.
Most importantly, the main living and sleeping areas were all clear of boxes and random mess.
The second bedroom was the ‘to-do’ zone: It was literally corner-to-corner full of boxes. But I could just close the door and pretend for the first day or so that it didn’t exist until I wanted to tackle it.
By early evening on moving day, I was having champagne on my couch, looking out over the park to the glimpses of surf, and making peace with the change.
In the last couple of weeks, I have been settling in.
Not just unpacking (though of course a lot of that), but working to make this apartment feel like home, getting used to its idiosyncrasies, figuring out how I will live in it.
I’ve been hanging artworks, doing projects with contact paper (not yer gramma’s contact paper!), cleaning cupboards, the oven (ick!), building shelves, putting up curtains, buying homemaker items (a lamp, cutting board, rug, sink protectors, drawer liners, storage tubs, couch cushions), forming new routines.
I still have full boxes in the second bedroom and no room to put the contents anywhere, so there is still work to be done: I’m just keeping the door shut until I manage to organise it into something less disorderly.
It doesn’t feel like home yet. That will take some more time.
But it will soon enough.