Yesterday I discovered that it is not a natural human trait to find leaving town difficult. I had gone to pick up a stationwagon to move my precious belongings to the busfreight depot the following day. Teagan was home, having just undressed the silverfoil on an enormous steaming body of Barramundi, freshly caught the previous day on Tiwi Island, where the footy grand final was hosted. I was hungry – looking for dinner, and looking for an excuse not to be at home and stressing over my stuff. She poured two whiskeys and we sat down to a feast of fish flesh and single malt.
Teagan knows about moving. For a while she moved every few years, stripping off and jumping into it like a swimmer in the Build-up when conditions become unbareable. Loving the slough-off. Over our conversation I built a theory about people’s relationships to moving. It goes like this:
There are 4 categories of people;
1. Those who are content and don’t think about being somewhere else
2. Those who are not content but find the concept of moving too difficult to actually do it
3. Those who are not content, and move, but find it difficult
4. Those who want to move and do so with ease
I am of the third category, and Teagan is of the fourth. I am disappointed in myself for finding it so difficult to let go of things, but would rather be counted among category three than category two. Category two is the one I have been threatening myself with over the last twelve months of being discontent in my job but not acting to change the situation. Yes, I am firmly within category three, the main symptom of which is self-induced separation anxiety. Ask any one of my friends - in fact, ask Rita my car.
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