So, I’ve been pretty down ever since the London move officially fell through. Honestly, it was a pretty major blow. It went from “here is the proposal of the relo, here is what the moving expense coverage is, here is what the replace-all-your-stuff stipend will be” to “nope” in under two weeks. Pretty shocking. The door isn’t closed entirely, but let’s just say I’m not pinning my hopes on a date any time soon.

It’s all pretty depressing to contemplate though, since the Tier 1 General Migrant visa program(me) is closed and so, even if I do finish my degree at last, there’s no avenue for me to move absent an employer sponsoring it. I understand unemployment politics and immigration politics and blah blah blah, but seriously, I know enough Brits who want to come here, can’t we just arrange a one-for-one trade? I promise I’m a really productive person! And it’s not like I won’t be paying taxes in both nations anyways!

But I’m over at least the initial shock and bereavement, I guess. The first few days were pretty bad. The day I got the news, ironically, I had tickets to go see Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me — because it had been on my “things to do before I flee the country” list. I made it to the show, but I don’t remember much about it other than Peter Sagal had a bad head cold he heroically powered through, and Paula Poundstone cracked kleenex jokes at him. I know I made it home before I started crying again, but it was a pretty narrow miss.

I had started to seriously move on getting rid of stuff, of course. I mean, I started getting rid of the easy stuff to get rid of — sorting through my clothes more viciously to donate, selling books — after I got the “it’s really happening” in January. (On my birthday. Oh, the irony, it is thick on the ground in this tale.) I was pretty upset about the gaps on my bookshelves, after it all fell through. Not so much because the stuff was gone for no reason, so much as because the space where the stuff used to be is a constant reminder of what could have been. But, after a lot of sulking and thought, I think I’m going to continue getting rid of stuff. I had been planning to move with nothing more than my checked baggage, my two kitties in their carriers, my spinning wheel, and my bike… and if I’m prepared to do that, that means I’m prepared to live without all this stuff. A sewing machine I use once a year, that’s just not a significant need in my life… all the yarn that had been in my stash for a few years, I wasn’t going to use it any time soon anyways. It’s fine. It’s all fine. Stuff is just baggage. I don’t need stuff to be happy. I need space more than I need stuff. So, I keep on sorting through my stuff and dragging it off to the Brown Elephant to donate. May it serve someone else well.

That said… once it all fell through, I did go buy a new bed. I’ve been putting that off for years, literally, partly because I always felt like I was on the cusp of moving (even though I’ve been in this apartment for five years; I’d moved about every two years for the past decade before that), and partly because I have this sort of ingrained middle-class resistance to buying anything that I don’t absolutely need. And my futon is, technically, fine. I mean, it’s not broken. I can sleep on it. I don’t sleep well on it, I have insomnia problems and I remember distinctly last summer just feeling like I could never sleep off my tri training aches and pains. Well, fuck it. I’m not doing another summer of tri training aching like hell because I sleep on a (now) 19 year old shitty futon. I’m not a kid, and I have the money, so I bought a new damn bed like a grown-ass adult. I just went in to Macy’s, kicked off my shoes, curled up on a bunch of display models, and bought the one I almost fell asleep on.

It’s not England, but it’ll do for now…because what else have I got?