Saying goodbye...

"Saying Goodbye. Why is it sad?
Makes us remember the good times we had"

~Muppets take Manhattan


I've lost count of how many times I've moved a long time ago. I know it's somewhere in the double digits, but that's as close as I care to get. Until it's security clearance time again, it's just not that important either.

You would think that with all that moving around, I have become an expert at everything related to shipping out. And when it comes to all the nitty gritty details, I am. I know that it's not weird to take pictures of all your furniture before the movers come, it's called insurance. I have also learned that drawing diagrams of the insides of your kitchen cabinets has nothing to do with OCD, but is another way to prevent total insanity when you arrive at your new location. I mean, do you have any idea how annoying it is to completely "re-learn" your way around your new kitchen / bathroom / bookcase? Without thinking, you reach into the drawer next to the stove, and instead of finding the spatula, you're holding a stack of linen tablecloths that are now covered in red sauce. Not cool. Especially when you realize it can easily be avoided if you just arrange things they were in your old home. Had a kid at your old location? Pick up a few spare birth certificates just in case. Want to know what can and cannot be shipped? Well, if it can explode, melt, or catch fire, it's a no-no. Want to pass inspection? Make sure the first few rooms they look at look absolutely amazing, and then you can afford to fudge a little on the last parts of the house. It's almost become. second nature.

With all this experience, you would think I rock at saying goodbye to friends. You would think I know exactly what to do to make the transition easy for everyone, whether or not throw goodbye parties, how to best stay in touch with old friends, and how to not melt into a blubbering mess every time I see someone for the last time. You would think I know how to do all that. But besides having a cornucopia of ideas for goodbye presents, I don't know anything. In fact, as time goes on, I get worse and worse at saying goodbye to people. Whereas say ten years ago I saw every move as an exciting opportunity to meet more cool! nice! intriguing! people, I have now not only come to the realization that some people are just irreplaceable, but have also learned that not all the natives in the new locations think I am the fun, bubbly, nice person I like to think I am. In fact, I'm pretty sure that our landlords in Germany were absolutely thrilled to see us leave. And so having to make new friends is now quite a daunting activity, one without any guarantee of success.

For the past three years, husband-dear and I have been fairly spared when it comes to the heartache of losing friends or having to move. Last year, Summer and her family moved away, but those were the only friends we've lost since we moved here. Fortunately, and I say this with the most amount of sarcasm possible, fortunately, karma did not forget about us, and this year we have been struck with a quadruple whammy. Numerous very dear friends are leaving, either through orders or their own free will. And honestly, I don't know if the holes left by their departures will ever be filled. I could go on and on about the people leaving, but since most of you don't know them, that would just be really, incredibly dull. But you have had the pleasure of hearing about one of them. My fellow triathlete / tri-sufferer, Kay. Kay's husband received orders for Idaho, and the moment I heard about that, I, besides dissolving into a puddle of tears, told husband-dear he better get orders for Mountain Home AFB too. I don't care that it's another two thousand miles away from my family, and a good thousand from his. I don't care that the people who live there spent most of the year digging themselves out of the snow. I don't care that husband-dear's career field doesn't really exist there, he can shovel snow or something. I don't care that it probably has less universities than Georgia, and I will probably end up working at McDonald's. I don't care that I call the people from there Mr. and Mrs. Potatoheads. I don't care. I just want my running buddy, fellow Stabucks-addict, Gilmore Girls loving friend, the girl who saw us through more drama than we could have ever imagined, I just want her around the corner.

But I can't. And so instead I've poured my energy into making her a goodbye present. And pouting. A lot of pouting. And crying.

And you know, I think this is one of those situations where my mom was right all those years ago. Whenever we had to move again, my mom would give me the standard spiel all parents give their kids: It will be fun, there will lots of friendly children to play with, we'll get a swing / pool/ playset in the backyard, all of which I knew was not true (although we did get that pool eventually). But she would also tell me, "Partir, c'est mourir un peu". And she was right. Leaving is like dying a little.