In all my worries about finding a place to live, packing, and then moving, I never worried about unpacking. That would be the fun part, you know? Finding where each little piece of me lived in this new home and putting it there. Making the place mine.
It's just that I'm not so certain every single thing I have has a place there. Some things were easy; their new home just screamed out at me. Other things were not quite as obvious, but once I wandered around the apartment with the homeless item in my hands for a while, I found their place. But then there are a few boxes of things that I'm just not sure what to do with.
My goal is to break down at least one cardboard box a day. Sometimes that means just emptying out two halves of different boxes and consolidating to make my quota. Sometimes I go above and beyond. But it's getting harder to meet my own unpacking goal. I've already put a few things into a shoe box of odds and ends that I just can't bear to part with, but also can't find a place for.
And where did all these t-shirts come from?
I'm having trouble placing my posters. Some of them, okay, most of them, don't seem to fit in. The Muppets, Charlie Brown, Sesame Street, they all don't seem to go here. This is an adult's apartment. Adults decorate with things that go in frames and don't appear on cereal boxes. I don't even have any frames. Am I an adult now? I hope not.
Of the things that do have a place, I still have problems. I'm also not used to the fact that I do have a whole space just for me. My hair dryer sat in my bedroom for a good few days before I realized that the bathroom was solely mine, and I could put my hair dryer in there if I wanted to. I didn't have to keep light bulbs in my nightstand, and my purse can be casually thrown on the table when I come in. This does pose a new problem, though, in that I now have about five million new places to hide my keys from myself.
I realized at some point that my idea of how a kitchen should be set up comes mostly from my mother's kitchen. (I suppose it would be more politically correct to say "my parents' kitchen," but who are we kidding here?) Silverware goes in this drawer, measuring cups go in this drawer, mixing bowls go under here, and naturally pitchers go up here. If I were more the rebellious type, I would purposefully change all these things to some new way that is my own and in no way my mother's. And maybe I am a bit the rebellious type, but I am more the logical type, and, darnit, my mother's way makes sense.
I really have nothing to complain about. It's all slowly coming together. Last night I was able to clear off my new-to-me couch sufficiently so that I could take a nap on it. (Of course, after about a half hour, I gave up and went and took a nap on my bed, which is much more comfortable.) I set up a very pleasing workstation, and I hung up my many clocks. I'm planning on hanging my posters that aren't grown-up enough for the living room in the extra bedroom once I get some thumbtacks. It's starting to look like home. A little bit like my mother's home, but home nonetheless.