Moving Days

For the past decade-plus, my wife and I have been vagabonds. 

Every move had its own reasons, but employment has been the underlying issue. Hers, mostly. She bounced from medical school in Westchester County to residency in the city to fellowship in Baltimore to attending in Connecticut. Along the way, we went from Queens to Westchester to Queens again to Manhattan to Staten Island (for me) and Baltimore (for her) to Philadelphia to Connecticut and finally to here, our (hopefully long-term) home in New Jersey. 


All that moving means a whole bunch of moving days. I can remember each one in varying degrees of detail. The first few, we did all the work ourselves, unless we were fortunate enough to have friends assist. We just didn’t have the money to pay movers. By the time we were moving to Philly, Connecticut and Jersey, we did, and that made the days less physically tolling. But the mental turmoil of a move transcends achey muscles. 


And when I think about all the moves, I think about Julie. 


Me driving a Uhaul stuffed full of of crap, her sitting shotgun in her carrier. 


No radio, because I don’t want to disturb her. 


Windows up, air conditioner on. (This is unusual for me — I’m usually a windows-down guy.)


I drive slow, because of the Uhaul and navigating strange new roads, and the terrified that Julie is okay and comfortable. 


She’s stressed. I’m stressed. At least I know where we’re going. 


These experienced will bond you. 

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