As life would have it, I’ve come down with a severe cold five days before I’m scheduled to move into my new apartment. My days should be full of packing and Goodwill trips and scheduling, but instead they’re full of naps and nose-blowing and sneezing and aching, aching, aching.
Most of the time I’m okay with being a single gal, but I’m never so bothered by it as when a) I have lots to do and not enough time to do it in, or b) I am sick. When one or the other of these things occur, and there’s nobody to pick up the packing slack or run to the store for hummus and feta and a Coke (oddly, the only things I want right now), my happy-independent-girl facade crumbles a bit, revealing the shoddy craftsmanship of the building underneath.
This will be the first time I’ve ever moved without a boyfriend or family member around to help me. Saying this makes me feel like I’m from the 1950’s or something, like I’m one of those women who went from their father’s house to the sorority house to their husband’s house. I’m not one of those women by any stretch, but I still feel guilty for wondering if I can get through this move without a boyfriend or a dad around.
And I feel guilty for not going to work today, and I feel guilty for not packing while not at work today, and I feel guilty for feeling guilty because I’m fucking SICK, RIGHT? I’m not supposed to do anything. But things won’t get done if I don’t do them, so I feel guilty anyway.
Recently, a friend of mine received some terrible news that has redefined (for the worse) some events that took place in the past few months. She’s been great about keeping her friends updated on the situation via e-mail and text and phone calls, and she’s been even greater about telling everyone she needs help.
I possess no such skill. When I need help, my first instinct is to pretend like I don’t need help. And maybe I won’t. Maybe I can make it to the store myself, maybe I can pack everything myself, maybe I can walk to the U-Haul place and drive the stupid behemoth truck back to the apartment myself, and so forth.
But when I’m spending hour 23 on the couch next to 50 crumpled tissues and a box of Sudafed, it’s hard for me to think I can do anything at all.