The moving chronicles

My dad says that a good start is half the success. In that case, I better start investing in low tops and cute heels to please the surgeons, because I spent the first three days of my surgical rotation in hibernation. I must have been part bear in my last life.

I know, polar bears don't technically hibernate. But how adorable is this?

Or marmot, which sleeps for eight months, and copulate and eat for the other four. What an enviable life indeed.

Or snake, except the metaphor is suddenly not so cute anymore.

But I digress. My slothfulness was absolutely imperative because I had to move houses straight after my paediatrics exam, and those who have done either one will understand my torment. Moving is a painful process, especially if a) you/your mother are stereotypically Asian and like to hoard; b) your apartment is large and allows for storage of aforementioned hoarded items; c) the last time you moved was nineteen years ago; d) your family pretty much dismissed the renovator's advice a month ago to take action early.

In our case, it was all of the above. We were so last-minute with things that our kitchen looked like this at 6am on the day of moving.

The kitchen, three hours before the movers arrived

Bad time management aside, we do actually own a hell lot of stuff. I wish I'd placed some money at the back of all our closets, because they seem to be a fantastic culture medium for replication. When the movers called earlier to arrange for cardboard boxes to be delivered to us, my mum told them she guesstimated we would need about thirty. We ended up with about eighty. Needless to say, we felt the need to tip the movers generously. 

It was definitely no easy feat to pack my whole life into boxes within two days. As you sift through your possessions, you find yourself reliving chunks of your life...like that slutty hoe phase you went through in year 9. Those skanky Ecko tube tops should not have been mine to own, especially since I was neither black nor did/do I own boobs. Looking at my old closet, I'm surprised I was even let out of the house, thank god that part of my life is over.

Of course, there are many other gems retelling precious memories, some not for you to relish, such as the photos of your mother posing in a bikini on a sofa in the hotel on her honeymoon.

Yeah, let's not even go there.

Did you really think I was going to show you my mother and her goodies? Seriously now.

Anyway, it has been almost two weeks since we moved into our new place, and it is still strewn with boxes with just the minimal amount of floor exposed for one to shuffle sideways from one room to another. Unpacking is seriously such a bitch. After all, what goes in must come out. Of bags, not vags, you dirty-minded child.