All of us have moved at least once in our lives. Unless you were born and raised in a house then continued to live there with your parents until it became your own home in which case good on ya. I mean bless their souls and mine as well, but the main reason my parents and I had a good relationship is because I moved out. I suppose you might call me a spirited youth. With strong opinions. And a stubborn streak.

But I digress.

Even if you’re one of those folks who was born and raised (those of you in the south know what I’m talking about) you probably still have a move or three under your belt – going to college or moving out when you get your first job, getting an apartment with some buddies, finding your first solo apartment, moving in with your luvie. Did you pack up your stuff and move it from point A to point B? Then you’ll get what I’m saying.

I’ve hit the stall.

Every move I’ve ever logged follows an unpacking pattern. There’s a pause after all the boxes are loaded in – it can last anywhere from five to thirty minutes, depending on the job looming – when I look around and think holy hell, how am I EVER gonna get these unpacked? I find it slightly disorienting since I already feel like I made it to the other side. I’m sitting in my new place. My stuff has all (presumably) been delivered. I’m home free. Except for the fact I refuse to live out of boxes.

Then there’s the whoosh when I’ll get somewhere between 48 and 60 hours of hardcore, visibly impressive progress. Boxes get unpacked, broken down, and hauled out of the house. Items find their home and settle into their drawers or cabinets. I can see the cardboard mountain diminishing and my heart lightens just a tiny bit, alive with the promise of days when I won’t wake up deciding which room to work on. The whoosh is like the giddy high of driving a sports car – just get out of my way, nothing can stop me now. Until the stall.

For me the stall doesn’t even have the benefit of rest. It’s not like my sports car broke down and I’m waiting on the tow truck. The stall is reaching the end of the day after eight hours of unpacking boxes, looking around, and realizing not a damn thing looks different. The stall is a tough place to be. Wine helps. So does stopping work by 8:30pm.

There’s always tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that…