(I have...sniff...something...sniff...in my...OH GOD I'M SOBBING)
And, why am I being such a Poop-in-the-Pants about it? Well, funny you should ask, because I've made a list of reasons to mourn the life I once knew.
1. I suppose I'm not necessarily bummed about the LOCATION, exactly. I mean, Texas isn't all that....
Ah, fuck it. Guys, I'm BUMMED because it's TEXAS. I'm a New England gal born and raised. I like seasons. More specifically, I prefer to be cold. My husband has a theory about this, but no one ASKED HIM anyway. So, yeah, the fact that I'll be sweating like a pig on a regular basis is a bit disconcerting. And, like, do they actually let kids outside to play when it's 90 degrees? Me and my boys have that Scots-Irish skin. (Read: PALE) We turn red as a communist after exerting about 30 seconds worth of energy. No, it's not sunburn, it's more like we're OVERHEATING because it's 75 fucking DEGREES.
Which, incidentally, is why I no longer belong to a public gym. (STOP LOOKING AT ME!)
2. The Cats
Guys, the last time I had to take those bastards to the vet, they vomited and shat themselves about eleventy billion times before I even got out of my housing development. My plan at the moment is to NOT travel with them in an effort to preserve my sanity and/or marriage. That leaves a plane? (Too pricey.) Parcel post? (Perhaps with some extra bubble wrap?) Or perhaps putting them in the trunk (What, like that's worse than MAILING them?)
Before you call PETA, know that I've resorted to such drastic measures because there appears to be little to no help for this cause. I asked the vet about drugging them and she looked at me like I was a young child that was prone to sociopathic tendencies and may likely grow up to be a serial killer.
Have you seen Hoarders? HA! JUST KIDDING! (Mostly.) While we're not exactly over capacity in our current home, there is an endless amount of clutter. MY technique for this issue is the garbage can. My HUSBAND, however, thinks this is "lazy" or "foolish." Unfortunately, this leaves me no other choice but to toss half of our shit and stage a break-in. He travels often enough. It can be arranged. I think I have a friend on the police force who can fudge the documents.
What? Illegal? Dishonest?
4. Grandma, et al.
Oh, GUYS. To be YOUNG and FREE and all, sure let's move to motherfucking Texas because I don't have any plans this weekend ANYWAY! But now, you know, there's a couple of kids running the joint. And they're all I MISS GRANDMA every time I give them the wonky eye for pelting toy trucks at one another's heads. So now grandma will be A MILLION MILES AWAY, little boys! Which means you'll have to just...wait. MY MOTHER! MY FRIENDS! MY BABYSITTERS!
AHGAHD IT KEEPS GETTING WOOOOORRRSE.
(Upon reflection of this new development, it appears I'll probably ALTERNATE between sobbing with them and rolling my eyes, because HI GUYS, MOMMA'S OUT A BABYSITTER OVER HERE. But mostly I'll just be sobbing.)
So, there you have it. I've been working through this since Monday when I found out. Before making this list, I'd first decided to turn to some friends and family for moral support. But I've never been one for GOOD IDEAS. I mean, while I imagined some would be all, "Um? Whine much? Try moving to AFGHANISTAN?!" I was not prepared for some of the reactions I did, in fact, get.
Husband: [Coming home from work to find me in tears and baking enough cookies to feed a small imperialized nation.] What's wrong?
Me: [Dagger eyes.] What's WRONG with ME?! Don't you mean, what's wrong with the WOOOORRRLLLLD...!? [SOB]
Husband: Oh, what? You mean Texas? Yeah, it's gonna suck. [Opens refridgerator and gulps some milk.] What's for dinner?
And then there was Twitter:
Ah, guys? NOT HELPING.
And then YESTERDAY, in therapy I got the motherload of all unfortunate PEP TALKS. It began when, after sobbing my face off about moving and leaving my comfort zone and generally patting myself on the back for allowing myself those emotions, my therapist starts asking what I know about the state.
Me: Well, there's not too much where we'll be heading. Lots of suburbia. Chain restaurants. Heat.
Her: And serial killers!
Me: What... the ...? Why... would you...?
Her: No! It's just a joke! Remember when there were like three that came out of Texas around the same time?
Right, so I'm in this alone. GOT IT. THANKS. So, what, I suppose the next step is to...uhm, embrace it? Is that what mature people do when it's time to stop kicking and screaming? Ehh. Maybe I'll begin with baby steps. Like practicing how to NOT offend the locals.