Fleeing Florida and Evacuating to the Left Coast: An Ongoing Tale
Today, the reality hit. What the fuck have I done?
Almost two weeks ago, living in Florida as a native Floridian with one of the best jobs I’ve ever had, I decided to change my entire life and move.
At first, it was the planned move — the one that would cut my commute down from an hour and a half each way on the bad days to only about 15 minutes. I was just going up the road a ways. It made sense.
I’d gotten early lease termination, given my notice to vacate. It was going to be worth it to be close to work.
I’d started getting rid of stuff. I was minimalist, right? Shouldn’t be hard.
WRONG. It was grueling. I had to do most of the hauling by myself. I rented Uhaul vans and a pickup truck three different times, plus hauled stuff with my car multiple times. Donation centers, the dump, my son and his girlfriend — my stuff was going everywhere.
By the end, I’d brought in a homeless ex-felon and a newly homeless young adult to help finish, and it was still tight. And the homeless ex-felon had taken a lot of my stuff (much WITH permission, and a number of special things WITHOUT permission), including the chef’s knife and sharpener my son (the chef) had gotten me for my birthday on his meager salary. And my…
