Two whole weeks since my last post – yikes! They’ve gone by in the blink of an eye. I’ve been busy purging and packing – and then purging again – all of my earthly stuff, in preparation to move to a new neighbourhood. Where I’ll be living on my own, sans roommates, for the first time.
I will not actually be piling everything onto a bike (partially because I couldn’t pull off this balancing act, but also because I have a slight, irrational fear of biking, less irrational when you’re familiar with cycling and cyclists in Toronto). But that’s a pretty good representation of what my mind feels like, juggling stuff like tenant insurance – man, deductibles are straight-up buuulls–t – and saying goodbye to my defect La-Z-Boy chair, from which I am writing this now.
I’ve had this chair for going on five years now, during which it’s seen me through a lot of ups and downs, not to mention thousands of words written. My college roommate got it from a defect warehouse for a song because it was supposed to be part of a sectional couch and is missing an arm. I know it’s supposed to be a drawback, but I always loved that about it. I could – and did – roll out of it onto the floor if I was feeling a particular sludge-like brand of lazy, but a quick getaway was also equally possible. I can sit cross-legged without feeling confined. It is the most comfortable, bum- and back-hugging setup I’ve ever had.
I’ve curled up under a blanket on it, watching reruns of favourite shows to fend off loneliness on the day I moved out of my childhood home for good. My boyfriend tried to balance a soccer ball on my head while sitting on it, almost four years ago now, in lieu of finding something normal to say to me while we were still shy and getting to know each other. I once found my ex-roommate’s now-ancient Blackberry wedged inside, somehow still a passenger after two moves and countless deployments of the foot rest.
At first, my boyfriend said he’d take the chair. I know he just wanted to make me happy, after realizing (once he recovered from probable surprise at my choked-up tone) how much it meant to me. But after a nitty-gritty details conversation tonight – during which he conceded it’s going to be hard, if not near-impossible to work out how to get this sizeable monster to his house with no truck – we realized how little sense it made to save something when I couldn’t keep it myself. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye and it was kind of him to try to delay it. I’m still not ready. But that’s life, and that’s moving. You parcel up, tape shut, and hopefully recognize what isn’t going to fit into your new situation before you’re crowded into realization.
Later this week, I’ll defy the laws of matter by squeezing the chair through my tiny entrance and drag it out to the curb. I’ll wave goodbye (yes, I really will) and hope that it finds a new home with loving bums to sit on it.
In all likelihood though, people will think it’s infested with bedbugs and give it wide berth, much less pick it up. I’ll be gone before I know for sure.
You have to give yourself space to move freely. My next great chair-love will have it, too.