Addicted To Change

Hi, my name is Tiare (don’t try to say it. I assure you, you are saying it incorrectly. Not your fault), and I’m addicted to change. There, I said it.

I’m not addicted to all change, obviously. I’m not a big supporter of climate change; it feels a bit too hot and other times too cold, and the whole fire and ice thing seems very threatening.

I don’t love loose change; the way it makes that annoying tinking sound against the clothes dryer (yes, I use a clothes dryer).

The ‘change’ (menopause); I have not experienced it yet but from what I’ve heard it sounds quite uncomfortable.

So I’m not addicted to those types of change. Being addicted to those types of change is borderline serial killer stuff: just plain weird.

Recently however, we found out we are on the move again (house, not entire state this time). We are moving just a few streets away. This will be my four year  olds seventh house, my one year olds third, and for my husband and I, we’ve decided that the number is getting a little blurry (which might be from all the wine we consume during each move).

But I love it. I get a slightly wee enticing adrenalin rush when I find out I have to move house again, or applying for a new job, or getting a new haircut (I’ve had the same hairstyle my whole life, bar the shaved head stint, but I still stand by that, no matter what anyone else says). I can admit I suffer from a case of SED (Stagnation equals death). Yes. I made that up.

My deep fear of standing still while the planet, nay, universe and all its inhabitants orbit around me in what I can only imagine is their best lives ever, makes me feel very uncomfortable. And by uncomfortable I mean depressed in a  deeply, profoundly and debilitating way.

With each of our many moves (see how I’m not using numbers, that’s how many), I’ve become ruthless at throwing away unnecessary items. I still haven’t quite managed to stop buying said unnecessary items. It’s a work in progress. Even my children’s artwork had better be A grade and from an extremely sentimental moment to work it’s way into our next home. I take no prisoners.

I wasn’t always so positive about change. I too have been known to hear the C word and think, oh gawd what are those bastards up there thinking of doing now? But now I’ve become that annoying person that says, “change is as good as a holiday”, as I sip from the mug I’ve carried around with me for the past seven years.

Moving house so many times has incrementally built this addiction to what it has become today. Today, as I start packing boxes, and filling half emptied boxes from our move nine months ago, I’m already thinking about the house we’ll move into after the next one. Maybe it’ll be our dream home, the one sitting on the Gold Coast hinterland on acreage. The one with a stranger renting it, living in the house I hope to make a home one day. Or maybe it won’t yet be our destiny to make our way back there, maybe we’ll leave the country altogether and really challenge change. I’m up for it.

Change comes with all sorts of uncomfortable side effects. Like a sore back from moving furniture, heat stroke from doing it in summer, the divot in the bank balance after paying the movers, the stubbed toes, cardboard cuts and lets not forget the hangovers. But on the other side of those things, in this instance anyway, is the smell of fresh paint, a new opportunity to cull which means more online shopping (yay), a change of scenery, no more drink driving to the park (because we are moving right next to one), and new opportunity to make new friends  with our new neighbours (I know for a fact that they like wine. Winning).

I’m addicted to change.

I’ve had worse addictions.

But you know what they say; change is as good as a holiday.



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