A few weeks ago my maiden column for the web site "Anglotopia" launched. Anglotopia is a US based web site and blog for Anglophiles and I was talking about my recent repatriation, which will shock you, I know. One sentence was picked up in a lovely Tweet by The Displaced Nation, and it made me think twice.
"When you do a Transatlantic move, you choose your meltdowns wisely", was what I'd said in the Anglotopia column. How wise. Not always adhered to, I have to admit, but worth having it semi-permanently tattooed somewhere prominent when you're doing something BIG.
The potential for meltdown in question involved a rather lovely slim armoire I'd had in my US house, that is now stationed in my entry hall here. I would have liked it in my new bedroom as it has special drawers for jewelry; it's also not what I was going for as the first thing you see on entering my house. Problem is, our new stairs are somewhat narrow, and of course have two turns in them. The armoire (really not that big) is too tall to make the turns and no matter how the fabulous moving team tried, it wasn't happening. Perhaps it's because this is a rented house, but I just thought "Oh well" and moved on. Or was it that I was too worn down to care?
Or perhaps it's that, in the scheme of things, it just isn't that stressful? Some of the things we have gone through this year stretched me to the limit. Juggling all the moving balls in the air, so to speak, had me staring at the ceiling at 2am and getting up with my stomach in knots. Packing 25 moving boxes myself to then be told by the moving company that they only insured stuff they'd packed themselves. And this, two days before the intended move? Or finding out about a new Customs requirement of obtaining a TOR (Transfer of Residence) number to get your stuff into the UK without getting slapped with Cutoms tax? (Thought I was being rather clever there since no one else seemed to know about it, and then was told by the people in the UK that they were running about a month behind schedule. Of course they were.)
It's a bit like raising children with the adage "Choose Your Battles" front and foremost in your mind. Man Child Two's whole class got a "tardy" the other day because they'd been horsing around outside after lunch and had forgotten the time. Most of them were quite upset about it, but hey - they were late for class. My reaction was, first "How sweet that they were playing outside", and then "Don't worry about it but make sure you don't get any more". I'm just assuming they weren't all smoking behind the bike sheds!
Or it could be that in my dotage, there are other things to worry about. But that's probably another post altogether.