It's pretty natural that after five days of lounging, eating, drinking, napping, reading, biking, swimming, tanning, and exploring in Key West, real life is gonna walk right up and smack you in the face.
I tried to cushion it, though. I took a couple of extra days off of work after the return. We got in after midnight, I slept late the next day. And the next day. I used to not be able to sleep past 7:30. Somehow, in the past ten days, my internal alarm clock reverted back to the days when I couldn't wake up before ten. How quickly it forgets!
A number of things foiled my plan for Ultimate Relaxation, however.
First, I left hot, breezy, humid Key West and stumbled off the plane at BWI (it was almost one o'clock in the morning; what do you expect from me?!) into...fall? Did I not leave Baltimore just a few days after Labor Day only to skip an entire season? You know, that weird in-between-summer-and-fall season where CVS bombards you with Halloween but it's 90 degrees and sticky as hell outside? What happened to that? I woke up to discover that cold dampness had somehow settled in the northeast. It pained my soul, which had gotten quite used to lush greenery and turquoise water. (Two things that I actually really miss about living in Florida.)
The second - and much more distressing thing - is that finally some things came to fruition with my housing situation that I have been trying to ignore for awhile. Primarily that my landlord neglected to pay the mortgage for awhile, it seems. A...rather long while. You know, from those rent checks my roommates and I were sending him every month. And, apparently, the bank got upset (as mortgage holders are wont to do), and the whole thing boiled down to a pretty little letter that came through the mail slot addressed TO OCCUPANT and declaring that we no longer had a landlord.
This is not, as you might think, a good thing.
And so, it seems that a mere six months after moving, I must move again. Like...soon.
Moving is regarded as one of the most highly stressful things to occur in a person's life.
For me, this is double. Quadruple.
I do not handle moving well.
I wanted to throw up, curl up into the fetal position, throw up again, and cry until I passed out.
I am not being dramatic; that is actually what I wanted to do.
And so, with my tan already fading from the Best Vacation Ever, I am collecting boxes again and about to hit up all of my friends and family, begging them to help me move my 12 boxes of books and Uhaul of used furniture. Again. Six months later.
PS: I have got to give mad props to my boyfriend. Six months ago, he graciously helped me move right after a swim meet earlier that morning, and not only did he entirely prevent me from FTFO ("flipping out"), he can lift heavy things and take things apart and put them back together and make me laugh. You know, manly things. And he has, for whatever reason, gallantly volunteered to assist again. I am not, as it seems, "easygoing" or "flexible" or even "adaptable" to things like moving. I am also not the most pleasant of creatures when I am under duress. Shocking, I know. He deserves a medal. Or some Valium. Or maybe give me the Valium. He can still have a medal.