Moving Home

I’ve moved quite a bit for someone of my (extremely) young (and unbelievably spry) age. The most recent of the moves occurred this weekend. Moving really separates the boys from the men, or boys from the girls if I may. I proved to be an unworthy opponent to the one/two punch of heat and heavy boxes. Approximately 87 minutes into the moving effort, I felt compelled to lay down on the otherwise bare wood floor and ‘rest’, Meanwhile, my dad, hereby referred to as ‘The Champ’ in this passage due to his General-esque approach to the Operation Moving Thunder, toiled away on his mission hauling my un-coordinated furniture down to the rental truck.

As always, the process was that of cleansing; evaluating of that which I want to keep in my life and tossing all that would cause Stacey and Clinton to groan upon sight. My efforts to de-pack-rat myself extended when I arrived at my childhood home (my temporary place of residence until I figure out my Next Steps in life). My closet turned out to be a feat in and of itself: among that which I sorted were approximately 50 high school graduation cards, dozens of movie/theater tickets from the 1990s and my THIRD GRADE JOURNAL. This gem reminded me of my near-frightening obsession with the New Kids on the Block, my unwieldy nature and my absolute hatred of journal writing. One of my favorite entries addressed, I infer, the prompt: what are the ten biggest questions you have? My sagacity produced questions regarding the possibility of World War 3, what life would be like without parents, and the ever-present pondering of what I will be when I grow up. Just as I was feeling like I have made little to no progress in what I think about from third grade today I hit the bottom few questions, where I was, clearly, just trying to get the assignment d.o.n.e. These brilliant quandaries asked:

Why do we have to write in these journals?
And
Why can’t I meet the New Kids on the Block?