So yeah, I hate to move. The entire idea of having to relocate causes every muscle in my body to seize up. I’m not sure why, so I thought I might attempt to find the reason for my aversion through reflection, because let’s face it, reflection generates insight and understanding. If you haven’t tried this method of self-discovery, I encourage you to do so, and find a deeper understanding of yourself.
Anyway, back to topic.
As a child, we didn’t move that often. I think I probably moved a total of four times. While that number is meager compared to some, especially those military kids who traipsed around the world with their military parent or even my husband, who went around the word several times as a Navy sailor, each move distressed me.
I hated the entire process of relocation; packing boxes, loading the crap into a car or truck, unloading, and unpacking. What a complete waste of time and effort. The problem was, this was the only way to get it done, and growing up poor, I didn’t even know that you could hire someone to move you. This option was never considered. Nope.
Instead, me and my four siblings, along with my mother, executed the entire maddening event. And three of the four moves didn’t include a damn moving van. No, it involved making a zillion trips with a green station wagon, you know, like the one in the National Lampoon Vacation movie, except the one in the movie was much nicer than the piece of crap we rode around in. When it came to the big furniture, we borrowed the neighbor’s truck, which like the station wagon, was a heap.
On top of hating this whole moving process, I never enjoyed the new schools, new kids, new friends, or the new bullies who were bound to pick on me until I schooled them properly (I was a feisty little blonde girl). Nevertheless, the choice was never offered to me, and so, I participated, silently voicing my disagreement with it by not handling the boxes with care and avoiding the picking up, stacking, unloading, and unpacking events as much as possible. I’ll be honest, I played the too-small-to-be-useful card quite a bit. It’s a perk of being the youngest, what can I say.
In my adult years, I’ve repeated this process 15 times (holy crap, I can’t believe I’ve moved that much). Each time was gut-wrenching. Hated it. Probably even more than I did as a child. And except for the last move that led me and my family to Houston, I never hired a moving company. Not because I didn’t want to, but because let’s face it, I’m not independently wealthy and the cost of movers is, for the most part, prohibitive. Still, to continue making a living or even improving the amount of money I made, moving was a necessary evil.
You might think that despite my hatred of moving, I would enjoy creating a life in a new city. New friends, new places, new job, new coworkers. I can tell you, I still hated it. Never enjoyed it. Probably never will. But I did it because I had to. And as I sift through this reflection, I think I’ve finally figured out why I have such a strong aversion to it.
I don’t like change.
I would rather things be steady. Consistent. Predictable if you will. For example, I’ve been married to Todd for 18 years, and I take great comfort in knowing that every day I leave work, when I arrive home, he will be there. Even in the face of this predictability, I don’t take it for granted and I never get bored of it.
There you have it, I’m one of those people who make change management a nightmare. For me, change equals discomfort. I guess I will spend the rest of my days in Houston, and that’s okay with me.