45. That is the number of boxes that Lorraine and I have to pack up our entire lives. We are moving at the end of the week, to an apartment slightly bigger than the one we are in now. We are staying in the city; actually, we are just moving across the street. I can see the new apartment from the window that I am sitting by in our current apartment.
I like to think that I have a nomadic spirit inside of me. The idea of moving does not bother me much. I do not feel too attached to anything or anyplace. When a good friend of mine told me that we has considering moving to San Francisco for a job, but felt attached to NYC, I could not understand what he meant. NYC, San Francisco, Chicago, Tel Aviv— all the same to me.
Or at least that is how I felt a few years ago. I am much more attached to NYC than I thought I would be. There are many fond memories that I have here. We have been in this apartment for three years now. We went through career changes in this apartment, went through a pregnancy in this apartment, and started raising our first child in this apartment. It has also been nice to be in relative close proximity to family: Lorraine’s family is in Brooklyn and my family is a short flight away.
I am getting more attached to things as well. Whereas before I would throw away items indiscriminately, I am now holding on to items for their sentimental value. A book from my mother, a painting from a date night, a piece of Judaica from my father, a juicer from my grandmother; all now have more value to me regardless of their utility.
So as everything I have goes into 45 boxes, I am reminded of the fun times, tougher times, and all the times in between that we have had in the apartment. Hopefully by the time we move out the new apartment those 45 boxes will turn into… at least 46 boxes (lets not get out of control here). More items that will reflect more great memories with family and friends.