It’s our penultimate night in Manchester.
I’m surrounded by boxes, bags and things that blatantly aren’t packed. There’s a method to our madness.
It’s going to rain during our move Saturday, but at least the hurricane won’t get here. There’s still a chance our mattress will get wet, but there’s less of a chance.
We have Mikey and Craig helping us Saturday, so we plan on at least getting the big stuff over then. We have a U-Haul van for eight hours, so we might get a lot of it taken care of. Since we’re moving less than two miles, some stuff isn’t formally packed because we’re just going to bring them over loose (e.g., I’m going to transport my dresser drawers with my underclothes in them) or we’re going to unpack and reuse the boxes.
You see, we have an entire week to move.
But my goal is to have everything out and hand over the keys by Tuesday.
With each passing day, I’m getting increasingly excited about this move. Sure, it’s a one-bedroom, but it’s roughly the same size of this place. We’ll have more closet space. We don’t have to pay pet rent when we get one (at least for 18 months). More of my favorite things, like my barber and Alamo, will be within walking distance. Who am I kidding? I consider nearly the entire city to be in walking distance. But I don’t have to walk everywhere — the complex comes with two gyms. I’ve already claimed an exercise bike. I still don’t know if I want to get on a real one again, although a recent visit to Bryan Park made me want to get one.
But I’m kinda going to miss this place. Although the management went downhill to force us all out, I’m going to miss that it’s a loft in a truly industrial area. I’m going to miss how purposely rough the initial renovation was. I’m going to miss taking the Manchester Bridge.
But it’s time to move on. I know when I’m not welcome. He’s to at least 18 months in our new home.
See you on the side of the James on which I was born.