An Idiots Guide to becoming a Gypsy

USAir 3802, 31,000 FEET IN THE SKY—On Friday, my Mom called me to say hello. She asked how things were going, as far as moving and everything, and how the weather was going. As the conversation started to wane, she asked me if Lisa was around. “Nah, still at work,” I replied.

“Oh, ok, well I just wanted to ask her what it’s like to be unemployed!”

I laughed, but I hadn’t even thought about that yet—Lisa’s last day at work was Friday, so she was technically unemployed now.* Friday night and Saturday morning would be spent packing and cleaning for the move out of Lincoln; once we left the apartment and turned in the key, though, we’d be jobless and homeless. Yay for security!

It took us, realistically, the entire week to prepare for this move. I spent one or two days cleaning out my closet, throwing away trash, packing clothes, repacking them (in those vacuum-seal packing bags), and shuffling around different items to keep my two allotted suitcases to 50 pounds or less. Another day was spent just returning items to the store and running different errands around town. By the time Friday rolled around, I’d had more than enough of this moving business.

Things were really bad for Lisa, with her spending most of the week battling the chest cold that I happily shared with her. Being that she was working the 9-5 every day, her evenings were spent coming home and packing up all her possessions in preparation for this weekend. Even though I think we both wished we had more time to prepare to leave Lincoln, it was a complete and utter blessing when we rolled out of town in our packed-to-the-brim Accord and drove off into our futures.

Ah yes, the car—how could I leave that out? Mostly, I’d guess, because I’ve spent the last 12 hours trying to block it out of my mind. Even with the trip home last weekend to get rid of a lot of our stuff, there were still so many items that Lisa and I pined to take with us. Many of the items we gladly gave up: 2 huge cardboard boxes of clothes, Vadalia’s dog crate (which we lovingly filled with no less than 200 clothes hangers), the trusty microwave I had toted along with me no less than 5 different “homes” in 2 years. Other items were more difficult, and even after friends stopped by to take many of our possessions (thanks Wael and Sarah!), there were lamps and sports equipment and tons of other things that we would have loved to keep if not for space and logistical constraints. Saturday morning, then, we lined up everything that we’d decided we would to attempt to bring with us in the living room and began the process of packing the car.

I recognize that I am prone to be hyperbolic at times. Perhaps it’s the self-conscious cynic inside me, but almost any time I say “It was the heaviest thing I’ve ever carried!” or “I was starving!”, I feel a bit silly for being so dramatic. Really? That 20-pound backpack is the heaviest thing you’ve ever held? Were you really starving? Really? With that being said, let me report this:

Had we brought attempted to squeeze one more item—a plastic Wal-Mart bag, a small shoe box, a sweater—into that vehicle, I can say with all certainty that it would have exploded. Seriously.

[Side story: two summers ago, when we moved Lisa from Chattanooga, Tennessee, to Lincoln, Nebraska, I was bewildered by the way this woman was able to squeeze force an endless number of items into her Accord. Furniture, clothes, a dog crate: you name it, Lisa had packed it. All she had left in Chattanooga was one box of food she “kinda wanted to take” with her; everything else was in (including her puppy, who sat on the floorboard of the passenger’s seat). While it wasn’t comfortable at all, I was simply amazed by how Lisa was able to cram her entire life into that vehicle. Now flash forward to yesterday: This makes that look like a casual stroll through the woods.]

Between the back seat, the trunk, and the floorboards, Lisa again proved to be a greater packer than Bart Starr. But how full was it? Thanks for asking. My driver’s seat to the car was at its most upright position, scooted as close to the steering wheel as possible. Not only was leg space impossible, I had to steer the wheel with my elbows. Let’s do a little experiment:

1. Put your hands on your chest.
2. Move them two inches away from your body, keeping your elbows as close to your torso as possible.
3. Make fists like your holding a steering wheel.
4. Bring your knees up as close to your hands as possible.
5. Stop breathing regularly.
6. Pretend like you can't feel your legs.
7. Stay like that for 10 hours.
   

I promise you with every bit of my soul that this is not an exaggeration at all.

However, after nearly 13 hours, 5 states, and 2 time zones, a guy, a girl, and a 50-pound peeved-off puppy rolled into Indianapolis, exhausted, cramped, and ready for a good night of sleep. For Lisa, it was the beginning of her last fortnight at home as a single girl; for me, it was the day before I flew home to officially complete my reign as the Webb family dungeon (read: basement) master (read: borrower).

So here I am, sitting in an airplane, just a few days away from the end of an era. Often times, you hear about "the next chapter" (from people who don't themselves read, let alone write, books). In a way, I feel like this transformation is even greater; it's the end of one book and the beginning of another. I'm single, living at home, unemployed, and poor; soon, I'll be married, living on my own (in a foreign country, no less), teaching, and completely loaded comfortable.

The thing is, I'm psyched. I'm not worried. I'm thrilled. This week at home will be fun and relaxing, but it'll just be a layover. In just a matter of days, Lisa and I will set sail on our greatest adventure yet.

*I can’t say anything on that—I hadn’t been employed since the last week of May. Furthermore, I had no car, meaning that I would technically be referred to as a "drifter".