I moved into an adorable apartment this weekend with one of my college roommates. The location is fantastic, it’s roomy, it has central air (which my poor frizzed out hair is thankful for) and the kitchen has a HUGE island perfect for cooking, baking or storage for fashion magazines (and let’s be honest, it’ll be used much more in the latter capacity). I LOVE this apartment.

What I don’t love is the reality of moving. Specifically moving all of my stuff from point A (parents’ house) to point B (apartment). Especially when point B is two hours away. And there is a U-Haul and two cars full of stuff. And mysister is moving the same day to a place three miles from my apartment. And my father just had shoulder surgery two days before. Crazy can’t even beging to describe it.

First of all, I should probably disclose that I am a procrastinator. And not just a little one, but a huge, “I think I’ll wait til the morning of the move to put things in boxes” kind. So moving morning didn’t exactly start off on a great note. It all culminated with my 20 year old sister driving a seventeen foot truck two hours, dragging my heavy maple furniture up a flight and a half of stairs (in the rain) and then realizing the kitchen table was broken.

Good times. But my stuff is at least moved and my bed is set up with the cutest green and white polka-dot sheets and a pink comfortor. So, for now, I’m a happy camper.


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