The day that was promised has arrived.  I'm moving.  Again .  The weekend following, and three times in the span of three years.  This is the result of being a live-in stager at home. While packing and unpack, I contemplate like Plato on the important question What am I doing this?  Yes, I don't have a loan or mortgage.  I am able to live in a completely flexible housing and the opportunity to live in some really nice houses with a lower cost than what I would pay when I own or rent them. The offer sounds snooty until the day of packing comes around.  Then, the attraction of the gig fades as does the appeal of a luxurious nightclub as the lights turn on. As I again wrap bubble-wrapping baubles in bubbles and pack books, I offer myself this motivational speech: "Self," I declare, "as long as I've signed on to this vagabond life, I might as well embrace the process, find the Zen in packing and turn moving into a serious sport, where the goal is maximum
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