I've had a total of 12 addresses over the past 10 years. Maybe 13... you kind of lose count when you get into double digits. I'm not an outlaw, I've just spent my college and post-grad years in a nomadic haze, with my meager belongings in a constant state of flux between a pilfered grocery store box and an overcrowded closet.

Now I'm staking claim to a plot of land in my hometown, merely a mile or so from where my mother nearly gave birth to me on a fire engine during a record-breaking snowstorm (I've told you before that I come from a long line of strong women). More specifically, I'm moving into my boyfriend's house, becoming (evil) stepmother to his sweet, hapless (brainless) mutt and blending together our lives and belongings in under 2,000 square feet.

It's official. This moving van says so.

But first, I need to finish packing. Theoretically, this shouldn't be too hard, considering that I only have a few pieces of IKEA furniture to my name. But it is hard, as evidenced by my self-imposed shopping hiatus, which was inspired by sheer disbelief at the amount of things I own.

Aaron deals with my piles of belongings with a refreshing bottle of Jaegermeister.

Packing is the important foundational work: editing down my personal belongings to complement those of another human being. You can tell that I don't take this kind of assignment lightly, and have applied serious analytical thought to the process:

Meanwhile, my brother and Aaron spent more time giggling with each other than they did actually moving things.

There's a box of computer cords that has followed me through three cities and six apartments without being opened. That means it is important.

The boys called this garbage. I called it essentials.

I might need this four-lens camera whose film I haven't developed since high school, when every photo was blurry and useless and completely unlike the carefree Urban Outfitters catalogue look I was going for.


This box of expired checks seems like it makes sense to pack up along with a tiny lamp and a box of outdated beauty products I've had since at least 2008.


I'll keep this one mitten just in case I find a store where they sell singular mittens to girls who find it an impossible task to consistently keep track of two whole mittens.

I'll make sure all knives are loosely thrown into a box of various breakables and books.


I'll throw my belongings into unlabeled boxes and grocery bags (yes, grocery bags) and pile them in Aaron's living room until we have created a convincing set for a TV drama about meth addicts.

Is the glamour and romance of my life too much for you to bear at this point? Are you feeling bad about yourself just reading this?

Well, don't. Someday, you too will find yourself hunched over your open dresser drawer, defending a pair of shapeless pajama pants that you've had since the late 90s as he shakes his head and holds them over a pile of donation items. And that's when you'll know: it's love.