My trusty key chain holder. Not always Megan-proof.

I can tell that my stress level is on the rise when I start to do dumb shit while performing the most basic everyday tasks.

Yesterday, while preparing to go out on a bike ride I did my usual prep of removing the car key from my key chain (I don’t like to carry around extraneous bulk that I could potentially lose). I decoupled the components, took the Zippo-sized VW key and proceeded to stuff it into my bike pack. Then I twisted my doorknob lock shut and closed the front door with my house key left swinging securely on the holder. It wasn’t until I returned an hour later that I discovered my folly when opening the pack and retrieving not my key and fob, but a big useless and expensive dead weight that would start my car. I sighed and made my way toward the building’s front door. Luckily, Mohammed would be on duty, and after three years of living here this particular concierge knows me pretty well.

“Megan,” he said as I rolled my bike up to the desk, “are you locked out again?”

For as much as I’ve unenjoyed living in this big red concrete jungle, on numerous occasions I have been so incredibly grateful that my building includes Oh Shit Spare Key Service as a part of the rent. Especially during times like this—times when the ground seems to be moving beneath my feet, and I never notice that something is amiss until I find myself flat on my ass, wondering what the hell happened. I’m not always at my best when coping with change.

I feel like I *just* unpacked all of this stuff…

I don’t know why it still feels this way, but preparing to move again feels like an out of body experience. I’ve been bouncing around since I was sixteen years old, so really you’d think that this kind of transition would feel second nature by now—kind of like how computer administrators have trained us to concoct fifteen character passwords with ridiculous rules that necessitate special characters where one has to incorporate hieroglyphics. As humans we’re more or less proficient in the conduct of our intricate lives because we have slowly increased the level of complexity over the years. The same goes for moving. I’ve done harder moves. At this stage in my life I shouldn’t be manifesting stress by way of locking myself out of my house. Should I?

I did actually get to the NEX– but then I walked back out again without buying what I needed. The hand can only take you so far.

Just above is a photo I snapped while sitting at a red light on my way to a dental appointment in the city. As of late this patch of skin has stayed pretty inked as I find that it’s the best way to ensure that my most pressing moving tasks get accomplished. Otherwise my attention span gets measured in South Park episodes that I wind up watching in lieu of dealing with actual pre-move preps. And who can blame me? In the next week I’ve got three separate moving days scheduled and it’s perfectly natural to want to procrastinate. I really have no desire to start packing suitcases.

Move in day, three years ago. There’s no way my place will be this sparkling when my stuff is removed.

But still, I’m running out of time. Before the trucks roll in I’ve got to figure out what shouldn’t be packed up (hello, passport), and I need to gather my records, say goodbye to many beloved DC people, clean my apartment, and maybe pretend that I’m focused on my day job. It’s a lot to take on, no matter how many times a person has picked up their crap and moved.

I was driving over to the dental clinic in order to do my final checkup and out-processing. I was running a bit behind schedule as I was getting dressed into my favorite uniform, the dreaded Navy aquaflage, I noted that I had just enough time to hop into my car and make it to the base on time…except that I couldn’t find my cover—that military hat thing we must wear whenever we’re outside.

Someone didn’t put her hat back where it belonged. I wonder who that was?

Normally, my cover stays perched in the same location in my walk-in closet—but honestly, it’s been months since I’ve worn this outfit and of course it was not on the usual hook among my purses. I scanned the closet in a panic. Soon I was going through all of my accessories, throwing winter hats and fashionable scarves up in the air cartoon-style as I beachcombed for my headgear in vain. I checked another closet that houses a bunch of other uniform stuff that I hardly ever wear. I looked and looked again. Nothing. The clock was ticking, and quickly I realized that I would need to get undressed and report to the base out of uniform. A policy that is frowned upon, or so states a tersely worded sign that is posted on the medical clinic’s front door.

The thing is, much like my brain mistaking a big thick car key for a tiny house key, I knew that the hat was probably sitting somewhere in plain sight. I was just too engrossed in some future potential existence to actually take in what resided in my physical surroundings. I accepted that I was probably not going to see what I was looking for, and instead slipped on a skirt and a nice top before heading out the door to make my appointment on time—upbraiding from the medical department be damned.

All told, moving is not that hard—I think I just have my own way of dealing with the inherent stress that comes with shuffling my life around. I know that it’s all going to turn out okay—I just need to do a better job of reminding myself that it’s simply a matter of focusing on right now, and accepting that the stuff ten minutes (or one week) from now will only happen when it gets here. If I had just stopped and really taken stock of the present—what the key in my hand looked like rather than what my brain was envisioning on the bike trail …or if I had just stopped imagining that I was going to show up late for my appointment and instead looked at what was there in the closet—then I would have set myself up for success. The hat, as I discovered once I got home, was sitting right there. Behind my shoes.

See, I didn’t see my hat because it was camouflaged. That is my story.

The next couple of days are going to be lots of fun.