Moving Maladies | Fort Bend Focus Magazine

It’s just way too hard to pack . . . and hold my drink. Priorities, you see.

By Patti Parish-Kaminski, Publisher

I have recently moved. And I don’t mean that I have gotten up from the sofa and meandered into the kitchen to get a snack. I mean that I have packed up personal belongings, lugged them up and down stairs, hired a moving company and relocated myself and said belongings. I have unpacked, decluttered, reorganized, pontificated on my rationale behind retaining certain items, cursed, cried and prayed – a lot. I have broken nails. I have pulled muscles I did not know existed. I have found treasures. I have lost patience. I have been less than precious. All in all, I give myself a solid D+ on the entire project.

Now this grade is hard for me. Your girl is an over-achiever. I’ve raised over-achievers. My kids are over-achievers; my dogs are over-achievers. Mr. Kaminski, well, that’s debatable, but I didn’t raise him. Lord knows I’m still trying, because on top of being an over-achiever, I’m also tenacious, kind of like a bulldog, but there is a 27-year plus learning curve to take into consideration before I got a hold of Mr. Kaminski. That’s a significant hill to climb, especially when you tend to wear heels on the daily like I do.

I’ve determined two things throughout this process that have contributed to this less than stellar performance. First, overt physical exertion in any way, shape or form does not appeal to me. I do not have the wardrobe, the hairdo nor the dexterity. With one hand singularly devoted to holding my wine glass, prolonged physical activity simply doesn’t work for me.

Second, I’m just not a nomadic individual. The back and forth of packing and moving and unpacking and putting away – that’s just too much roaming around. I prefer for me and my things to stay put. I’m the girl who thinks of a particular shirt I had in the 80s, decides I want to wear it and knows exactly where it is. Now don’t hate on me for wearing vintage fashion; everything comes back around. Look at bell-bottoms and motorcycle jackets for goodness sakes. And yes, I still have mine.

The whole change component of moving doesn’t really set well with me either. It takes me a hot minute to reacclimate. Mr. Kaminski says that’s what happens with age. And yes, he really enjoyed those five days that I refused to speak to him after he imparted those words of wisdom. When he asked why I wouldn’t respond to him for days on end, I simply replied, “I can’t hear you. You said I’m getting older – guess my hearing is going.” That solved that.

I have a girlfriend of 20 years who has moved 167,000 times. I used to take it personally –like she was trying to ditch me – but she always invites me to her new digs. Plus, I’m pretty resourceful, so she really doesn’t stand a chance at disappearing. For the life of me I can’t figure out how she does it. She’s a rolling stone, and it suits her perfectly. I would be worn slap out.

When lamenting over the angst of my moving misery, my friend Bill Adams said, “I hate moving. I’ve told everybody that my next move will be to heaven.” I’m so glad I have friends who are so much smarter than me. I’m using that.

See y’all next week – on the porch!

Patti Parish-Kaminski