It doesn’t become easier the more you do it.

That’s what she said. 

Moving, in a phrase, “sucks lollipops.” Yes, I am 58 years too young to say such a noun. I did not have what you would call a “spring break.” Only my sanity broke around day four.

Day 1: The family prepares to move for the eighth time. We’ve moved across a country, a county, and a couple of states. You’d think we would be the best.

Day 2: I begin with the closet. A mild task that included extremely sentimental toys from childhood. Extra markers and crayons erupted from said hood to bring the dilemma of figuring out who needed them most. I was obviously out of the magenta and sky blue picture, but a church ultimately won. The cage match was crazy.

Day 3: The first round of old clothes vs. new clothes is a graphic one. A black business top fiercely flicks a button into a Target clearance item, but is unsuccessful in the war. Despite being outnumbered 3 to 5, new clothes came out on top. I’m sad to say that one traitorous still-tagged hoodie clouded things a bit.

Day 4: Flip-flops are not the most accommodating footwear for moving bedside tables. While pushing the ugliest entertainment center in history, I get the bruise that still graces the front of my right ankle four days and 15 hours later.

Day 6: Our hound dog decides that someone should have a spring break and runs away from the new house.

Day 7: The dog returned.