I hate moving. Not counting my arrival in New York, which involved a series of trips with my Jetta during my last month of college (I barely owned anything as far as furniture and grown-up possessions go), I've only really moved once. And it was enough to know that I shall avoid doing it again for as long as possible. This weekend the New York Times ran a story on serial renters in New York City, those tenacious souls who pack up and move, often by choice, on an almost regular basis. One of the article's subjects, a sprightly 76-year old named Lynn Steuer summed up her proclivity for jumping zip codes this way: "One thing’s for sure — it’s easier to move than it is to paint.”
As someone who painted, and wallpapered, and installed a custom showerhead in the last place I lived, this sounds like hell to me. It takes me such an uncomfortably long amount of time to feel settled while I unpack and try to envision what goes where in my new space (and I am not the type of person who can just leave boxes in the corner and pretend it's ok for weeks on end), that I've told more than a few people I simply plan on dying in this new apartment. I'm kidding. Maybe.
What kind of dweller are you: a nomad or someone who's a little more root stuck?