I recently asked my dad, "how many times I have moved in my life?"
We started counting.
1 apartment here, 2 there, 3 houses on the same street in that place,
4, 5, 6, 7...keep counting...
and finally we reached it...
25 houses in 27 years.
Now I get it. This is why I am jealous of people that get angry with their parents when their old bedroom is turned into a gym AND why I always get frustrated when I have to play that game where you find out what your "stripper name" is. The one where you have to take the name of your first pet and street name. I can't remember.
I'm sick of moving.
It's my fault, even after I left the final house I shared with my parents, I kept moving (almost yearly) to a new apartment, a new borough, a new town.
and finally I found a place I loved.
One Mikey and I filled with memories
and yet we are moving again.
This time so that we can progress, save money, live out our dreams and hopefully have a place that in 20 years, I will be able to remember what street it is on.
But one thing I know I won't forget...
the place we called "our first home"
