Although this is a personal blog, a medium mostly conceived for the airing of woes, I generally try to keep my fine whine in the cellar and off my site. Today, I'm making an exception. So stop here and appreciate the cute dog if whinging gives you hives. Don't worry, crafts and beer will return next week.
This Thursday is pretty domestic, but not in a crafty way. Instead, events in my life are forcing me to contemplate what it is, exactly, that would make yet another furnished apartment feel like home. Specifically, how many books it would take. I have a desert island mentality when it comes to packing. Even if I'm just taking the VIA into Montréal, I'm convinced that I'll end up stranded in the middle of the ocean. And then I'll really regret taking that fourth book out of my suitcase, when I'm barely 50 pages into my first. And let's not forget a second knitting project. And some wine gums. I'll need sustenance on my island.
At least fixating on how many books I'm packing, and whether they'll be enough, keeps me from thinking about my real anxiety. I'm worried that I'm making another mistake. In the past two and a half years, I've made two serious decisions about where to move and where to live. And they've both turned out to be duds on the balance. I know that doesn't sound self-help book approved, and la-dee-dah-another-door-opens-when-one-closes etc etc etc, but sometimes it's just an error in judgment, straight up. Sorry that doesn't look as uplifting in raised type on a cheap paperback. That shitty track record is why I'm not feeling very confident right now. Am I making the right decision? I hope so. I hope six books will be enough for the next few weeks. Because the box is full, and I need to go.
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