We are finally finally done and totally out of our old house. Yes, we moved our furniture and took occupancy of our new place over 2 weeks ago, but we still technically had our old place until the end of the month, so we dilly-dallied (what a great phrase) on getting those last little odds and ends out of the house, and particularly out of the garage. Because if you haven’t heard, our new house has less than zero storage (ONE closet people. ONE. In the WHOLE HOUSE.) and so our hope was to get as organized as possible before transferring over things like skis, snowboards, kayaks, bikes, and boxes upon boxes of tiny paper cups (didn’t you know Brandon does grocery store demos on the side? true story).
But last night, we did it. We rolled up our sleeves and put on our responsible adult pants (that’s a lie, I was wearing Lulu shorts), and marched over to that house and grabbed the last painting from the wall, the last few pots of forgotten rosemary from the walkway, and said goodbye to our little house with the teal kitchen tile and powder pink bathroom walls. The little house with the moody water pressure and the ability to hear everything (and I mean everything) that our neighbors were doing, the little house that was blisteringly hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter because the walls were just plaster on brick. But, that little house was the first little house that was ever OUR little house, and I have to tell you that before I locked the door behind me for the last time, I had a moment. I stood in the dark, empty living room and leaned my forehead against the door and was kinda sad.
Because, to be honest, our new place just does not feel like home yet. All my stuff is here, but I still sort of look around and think, “Who lives here?”
It probably doesn’t help that about 1/3 of our crap is still stacked in boxes around the house. Next time, I will be sure to pack everything in stylish wooden apple crates so that I can leave them in stacks and just pretend I live in an Anthropologie store.