Moving Day
Yesterday did not go so well.
Work was probably the highlight of the day, actually, which is sad. It was fairly slow, a nice change from Friday, and there were no real problems. That morning pretty much embodied why I have no real qualm with working Saturdays aside from not being able to sleep in.
I was able to lounge around at home for a couple hours, and then hared off to babysit for two couples recently moved here from Australia (via England) and Scotland, respectively. It was fascinating for the two hours when all three kids were up - the two girls mostly played in their room and painted their fingernails, and I had my knowledge of avionics and planes in general greatly expanded by almost twelve-year-old Jack. His dad was a fighter pilot in the Australian (and I think the British Royal) Air Force. He's still in the service (whose currently I never did figure out), though no longer as a fighter pilot. Jack's dream is to be a pilot just like him some day. He's got dozens of models, both of fighter planes (from all different countries) and commercial jets - two of which he's flown on, and he'll most likely be flying on the third one when he goes to Australia this summer. He also has a couple Flight Simulator programs, and showed me how to take off and land several different aircraft, from fighters to commercial jets to helicopters.
It was after they were all in bed that the problems started. It was only about 2130 by then, and the parents weren't expecting to get back until 0030 in the morning. I was tired to begin with, having only gotten a few hours of sleep the night before, and I'd developed a slight headache. They'd said they wouldn't mind if I slept once the kids were in bed, but I personally believe that it's highly irresponsible of a babysitter to fall asleep while watching someone else's children, and the one time I did (for a different couple), I was ashamed of myself when he woke me up so I could go home. Which meant that sleeping the headache away wasn't an option.
But I had to stay awake somehow, and the only way I could think of was to read. And of course, that only made the headache worse. By the time they did get home, it had developed into a full-blown migraine, complete with nausea. Then I discovered at the first stoplight that I was apparently misjudging distances. Fortunately for me, I thought it was closer that it was and started slowing down too soon rather than too late, but that really didn't bolster my confidence any.
Why this made me check my voicemail I don't recall, but it probably wasn't the brightest decision I made yesterday. The first message was from Reno, asking if we could do something that day (she apparently called just after I left to go babysit), which just made me feel guilty that I'd forgotten to call and tell her I wouldn't be able to hang out Saturday. But the second one is what did it, I think. It was from Murray, asking if she could move my stuff into the other room. We'd started working on mapping out the two rooms so we could get everything moved (I would go into the old sewing/guest room, and she'd stay in our old room, which would triple as the guest room when she's gone and the sewing room regardless), but I thought the actual move would take place today (Sunday).
So I was facing a twenty-minute drive home, exhausted, nauseous, fighting a migraine, and now I didn't even know where my bed was going to be when I got home. I almost called someone, despite it being 0100 in the morning, just so they could talk to me and keep me awake until I got home, but I managed well enough.
I get home, discover the hard way that they forgot to leave lights on for me again, and I make it halfway up the stairs before freezing with my heart in my throat, because I see stuff lining the upstairs hallway that's supposed to be in the guest room. I think I stood there staring dumbly for a full minute before I finally trudged the rest of the way upstairs and went into the aforementioned room, where I found most of my stuff has been piled on the floor in the closet, and the stuff that was in the closet piled on the bed.
I didn't even bother looking into my old room. Nor did I bother looking for clothes to change into, or a clea place on the bed. The floor looked empty enough. I just left my shoes, purse, book and glasses in the hallway, yanked the blanket out from under the bed, curled up on the floor and cried myself to sleep.
Today didn't really go all that well either. I woke up groggier than usual (the result of crying myself to sleep, I'm sure) to Murray kicking my feet, pointing out that I didn't have to sleep on the floor last night (actually, yes I did, because Dad was on the couch downstairs and there was junk on my bed too, though I hadn't looked the night before), and admonishing me that I needed to start getting ready for church. I'm sorry, but I really wasn't feeling very church-y this morning, and the nausea hadn't gone away. I just rolled over and went back to sleep.
And the rest of the day was devoted to boxing stuff up and moving things from room to room, which really only made my mood worse (not, I admit, that it had been very pleasant to begin with). I'd always had less shelves that my other siblings, but I made do. And I haven't had a dresser in several years - since I've got a captain's bed, they decided I didn't really need one. It doesn't really help that half of those drawers are used for storage anyway, since I don't have anywhere else to put my stuff - Murray gets most of the closet shelves to put her stuff away since she's rarely here during the year to use it. I'd already started boxing up a lot of my old books, not having any place to put them in the room, but of course, neither is there any place to put them in the garage, and we don't have an attic in this house.
Well, now I was going to have even less shelf-space than before, so I started boxing up even more of my things, this time the pictures and ceramic pieces I'd had on display on one of the shelves. I managed to get it packed fairly securely, and asked Dad to pass the box up to me so I could put it on top of the bookshelf. Now, bear in mind that he broke his finger a little while back and only just recently took the splint off, so it's not really his fault he dropped the box. Things were still broken, things I can't replace.
Eventually I just chased everyone out of the room so I could cry again, though I'm not really sure what exactly I was crying about. I think what it boils down to is the impression I've had (for some years now, actually) that I always seem to make do with less. Less room for my stuff, less of my parent's time and attention (and I know I'm not making that up or being excessively self-pitying - a little, yes, but not excessively - they did have less time for me when I was in high school, because they had to focus on incorporating the younger three into the family, and they had to coach LVA through her math class (she's never been very good at it), and they had to help Murray get off to college...). And LVA wonders why I'm so anxious to move into my own apartment, and my parents wonder why I don't want to go to school right now?
Mom and Dad came back in a little while later, and we talked about apartments and college and cars and finances. I think it's time Mallory and I really start looking for an apartment, so I'm going to talk with her this week about it. I need to decide whether or not I'm going to take classes this summer (I'll probably follow Mom's advice and just do a PE class, like bowling or jogging or something), and I need to really start thinking about whether or not I'll keep on with college come fall, or just quit until I'm a bit more financially secure. Which will mean either working longer hours at the bank (I don't mind, but I don't think my branch will let me, which means I'll have to transfer somewhere else - I really don't want to do that) or getting a second job. And then I need to start looking for a car.
Today's highlight was looking at my bed in my new room. It's at least three and a half feet high, what with both a box spring and a mattress piled onto a captain's bed-frame. It comes up to about a handspan beneath my breasts, anyway, and I'm five foot three. Good grief.
-Orvana