I've been told that moving house can be one of the most stressful experiences a person can encounter. I've gotten pretty used to it over the years, though moving in with a partner can be a bit of a challenge. The process is similar to the mating rituals of a weaver bird couple. After they've decided their partner is suitable; it's time to make a nest.
The male weaver bird will scope out a few promising trees and then show them to his mate. An act that is similar to a fellow looking at places to live and then showing them to his girlfriend. The male weaver bird is just bursting with glee at what he's found, but the female weaver bird will come along and be difficult, just for the sake of it.
"Have you seen the state of this tree? What kind of neighborhood is this? It's too windy! I know I saw a cat around here a moment ago. No, this won't do."
So the poor Mr. Weaver has no choice but to show her the next tree, and the next, until eventually Mrs. Weaver chooses one that she feels is suitable, probably something similar to the human woman's, "I like this. Lots of cupboard space and it has a bath. Don't you just love the wood finishing? Oh, and look! A built in stove and oven! Yes, this will suit us just fine..." Whilst the poor chap is so exhausted by now that he's just relieved that his chick has finally made up her mind.
At this point, the male weaver bird will start building the nest, a time-consuming and energy-filled task. Again, Mr. Weaver's really impressed with the result, and puffing himself up, ready to explode with pride; he calls his mate for her approval.
But alas, Mrs. Weaver doesn't like it and rips it apart.
In human terms, this is the first domestic. Usually running along the lines of; "What were you thinking? We can't put the cooking oils on the other side of the kitchen, the stove is over here. And you've mixed all the condiments. Savory condiments on this side and spices like cinnamon with the baking stuff. Why's there a whole cupboard for plastics, and yet all the pots and pans are crammed into this drawer? Where's your logic? Do I have to do everything by myself?" Out come the plastic containers, the pots, the condiments and the oils, until the kitchen resembles the aftermath of an earthquake or nuclear war.
Mr. Weaver is resilient though. This is a test of his will, of his staying power. He will prove his love for his mate and exercise patience, and be more considerate of her needs.
Sighing, he builds it all over again...
However, it's a well-known fact that you should always keep an eye on a woman when a couple moves in together. She can move at the speed of light, be in three places at once, and before the guy knows what's what, she's used a good 3/4 of all the cupboard space.
Certain areas will be allocated specific storage tasks. Even if there's one lonely bottle of painkillers, lurking warily on a shelf; that's the medicine cupboard. Should a man be bold enough to try and put his old PC parts in with it, well, he's just seeking his own doom.
And heaven forbid that the girl requests of her partner that he clean an area and he doesn't do a good enough job. It needs to be scrubbed until the top layer of paint is in mortal danger, and then buffed and polished to a mirror-like shine. Because if the girl pops her head around the door to inspect his progress and sees a speck, a smear or even a fingerprint, the storm clouds roll in, the room goes dark and the poor bloke looks up to see a silhouette of Medusa in the doorway, snakes writhing in her hair and flames licking at her feet.
Moving is always chaos. There's usually the first few days of opening at least six drawers before finding the kitchen scissors, or going through the entire bathroom twice before realizing that actually, we forgot to buy ear buds.
There's generally a lot of frustrated door banging in the beginning, and murmurs of "Oh darn. Now where did I put it?" And then the electricity gets cut off and looking for anything becomes a futile, Blair Witch affair.
There are a lot of things in life that can be considered stressful. Moving is one of them, power failures can be another.
But sitting on our new porch, with a couple of storm lanterns and a good book, cuddling quietly with my sweetheart, while the whole neighborhood flickers romantically in candle-light...
I realize I am content.
Even though I feel I should be scrubbing yet another cupboard, or sorting out my clothes, sitting down and appreciating our work, and what we've created together, is worth all the stress, the frustration and my belligerent apologies surrounding my pedantic need to have everything absolutely perfect.
Sometimes, happiness comes with calloused hands. You really have to work for it.
And as long as those hands can still lovingly stroke a lover's arm, or appreciatively feel the warmth of a candle flame, those hands will work another day in pursuit of that one specific craving that all people share; joy.
