This is not my first moving rodeo. I moved twice as a child but only a few miles apart. My freshman year of college, I moved my belongings—only boxes at the time, no furniture—back and forth between 7 different places, after my mother had suddenly died just two weeks in to the school year. That sucked. Then I spend one summer backpacking through Europe, like a snail, carrying my home on my back. That. Was. Cool. (And adventurous!) Post college, I moved to Chicago into what is still my absolute favorite place—a little one bedroom above a gourmet restaurant in Bucktown. It had high white ceilings and horrible drafts each winter—strong enough to blow out the pilot light in the wall heater—but I loved every ounce of that place from top to bottom, spotty heating and all. I learned how to cook in that kitchen. The year Tim and I married, he moved into my second Chicago apartment, which had popcorn walls in the hallway complete with embedded gold glitter. The upstairs neighbors in that apartment building were loud and rude and we left that place skipping and jumping. (Bad upstairs neighbors are THE WORST.) The wood floors, however, were gorgeous. We weren’t there long. Our first condo together was in a not-so-great neighborhood but it was all we could afford. And it was all ours. And it had exposed ductwork which made it feel like a loft. I loved it almost as much as my Bucktown apartment. Then off to Kansas to start a family and own a house. Tim rehabbed it, one room at a time, until we got the itch to move again. We tried for Ireland, then London to no avail, then landed in Boulder, Colorado. Not the intercontinental move we’d hoped for but absolutely perfect for us at the time. Funny how things work out. We made good friends. But that itch to move somewhere far and “new” never went away. So, we planted the seed again, hoping the third time would be a charm. And here we are. We move in this weekend.