I did the math. Over the last three months, I have been out of the country noticeably more often than I've been in it. I have traveled approximately 35,000 miles. I have been to ten cities in seven countries. I have experienced all of the jet lag. All of it. If you think you are jet lagged right now, it is an illusion. I assure you, the jet lag is all mine. I am tired and worn out and noticeably heavier.
I underestimate just how much the last few months of travel have taken out of me. I always think that when I get back to ess eff, I will take up all of my good habits right away. I will go to contortion class and finish the last of the Bunker 3-related projects and write lots of blog posts and schedule that eye surgery I've been putting off for a year. Instead, I come home and J is having a dinner party, and I have to retreat to the bedroom with a glass of wine to breathe slowly and hug the cats because my beautiful house is full of people and I am suddenly convinced that they all hate me. And J comes into the bedroom asking why I'm hiding in there, because he has put together a dinner party and there are fifteen people in our house and he is feeding them all. He has put off the party for two weeks just so I could be there. And why won't I just relax?
It takes me about a week to relax--a week before I can do anything other than come home after work and do anything more complicated than putting in a load of laundry and watching stupid television. After a week, I start to really come back. I can dye my hair and mend my clothes and go to the gym and repair my nice shoes and make plans to see my friends. After a few days, I feel ambitious enough to tackle the last of the cardboard boxes left over from the move to Bunker 3. Nevermind that the construction has been done since last October--we have only just finished installing the upstairs railing a couple of weeks ago, which marked the very last of the construction on our original list of Bunker 3 projects. I packed some of these things in December of 2012.
By Monday, I felt that the time had come. J and I had cleaned large swaths of the rest of the house. We could do this. We could unpack the last fifteen moving boxes. Unpacking bedroom boxes is like Christmas. Oh, how I'd missed my things! My many, many things! My boxes of socks and underwear. My boxes of go-go dancing accoutrements. My silk lounging robes. It had been a long time since I'd seen most of my jewelry. I felt like I could wear it all at once. People who tell you that if you pack your things up in a box and you do not use them you should throw them away are vicious, vicious liars. I'm just a happier person when I know where to find my 1930's black silk velvet gown, okay?
J and I spent a couple of days sorting through our things, cleaning the things that had become unfathomably dirty, throwing away broken things, extra tee-shirts and tights riddled with runs. We had made it more than halfway through the boxes when I unearthed a box of my nicest things, the box labeled "Vanity, large drawer." That's where all my jewelry went. And my feathered fascinators. And my corsets. And Archibald, my white fox fur with the little dangling feet. And my fox collar, also with little dangling feet, which had no name because it had no head.
Probably more than a year of moths.
Did you know that in addition to wool and silk, moths eat fur and feathers? I sure know that now.
Archibald and his grey friend were, unfortunately, consigned to the trash bin. Everything else has been sprayed down with cedar and lavender spray, tossed into a garbage bag, and deposited in the freezer until the moths die. I have purchased moth traps for the bedroom and cedar bits to distribute liberally in all of my drawers and in the closet.
The War on Moths begins today. And if anyone happens to see a white fox fur for sale, with the head still on and the little dangling feet, let me know.