Gypsy Moving and Shaking. It Happens.

Ah, moving. I love it. And I loathe it. Really it’s the packing and loading that I hate. The unloading and unpacking I’m pretty okay with. Mostly because every move I’ve made since I’ve left my parents’ house has been to get away from something. This time–if I’m honest–I’m not only closing the door on a chapter of my life, I’m also getting away from ignoring a part of my past I hadn’t dealt with or even knew I needed to deal with until this past weekend.

But! Nothing keeps me down for long. And nothing stops me. Nothing in the last fifteen years has been able to stop me. …This is why I’m seriously considering a phoenix tattoo much to my mother’s apprehension.

And that brings me to transformation. Well, more of it. I’m given to changes as an expression of breaking the ties someone has over me. The first time I did this I was twenty-four. I cut most of my hair off; from six or seven inches below my shoulders into a Victoria Beckman. That’s also when I pierced my ears for the second time and got the hoop in my left ear. At twenty-five I became a redhead. At twenty-seven I dyed my hair black for the first time. At twenty-nine, after this most recent break-up, I added red streaks. At an odd time when things seemed online I added a couple of purple streaks.

This time? I’ve done enough with my hair. I’ll add some more purple for all the good fortune at work. But this time? I think this time it will be a tattoo. A little phoenix. For the last fifteen years.

But back to the moving. In addition to stepping into the realm of tattoos I’ve moved. For the fifth time in three years. Such frequent moving, while unplanned, is reminiscent of a gypsy. And a gypsy I am.

And I will move like a gypsy. Give me my parents’ ’79 Suburban and trailer. That? Right there? Is how a gypsy will and does move! ..Although I did move with a moving truck once. The only appeal was learning I could manage driving such a big lumbering vehicle across Orlando.

Gypsy moving. This is when we take my parents’ massive, land tank of a Suburban and trailer, load them up with my stuff, and drive to my new place. Works like a charm. Except when it rains. Which it did when we moved my ex gypsy-style a year ago. No, I’m not going to say anything mean here. I’m just happy to be in a new space with excellent new roommates–’cause you have to like guys who will be your DD for Ladies Night and who make vegetarian lasagna. It’s the first step in getting back to myself and finding the pieces I’ve lost since last summer.

But! Make fun of gyspy moving or my parents’ old Suburban, and you’ll find yourself with a gypsy curse that no Witch Doctor could fix.