Rachelle Delaney

I have a moving complex. It’s kind of odd. Every six months or so, I decide that I absolutely have to move apartments, and I start combing craigslist for a better option than the one I’ve got. I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day with this compulsive behaviour. In the last four and a half years, I’ve actually moved seven times. Yes. Seven.

A friend once advised me that every time I feel this way, I should just move some furniture around. And honestly, it does work. But only for a month or two. (In September, we shifted my desk into the bedroom and got a new dining room table! The novelty just wore off.)

So a few weeks ago I decided it was time again. I targeted a few perfect neighbourhoods and warned P that our lease was up in December. He responded by ignoring me completely. P remembers well the ordeal of our last move.

But I persisted, searching for the perfect apartment – larger and less expensive than our own, not to mention close to good running trails and quiet, scenic places to cycle. And of course there must be an independent coffee shop that makes killer americanos nearby. That’s a no-brainer.

Well, I still haven’t found it. And this morning, something funny happened. I wandered into my living room in my pyjamas, Saturday Globe in hand, and stopped at the sight of the most beautiful morning outside my window. The sun was warming Lost Lagoon and the now leafless trees, and the rainclouds were lifting over Cypress Mountain, and everything was purple and blue and gold and lovely.

And it was one of those rare moments when I thought, really, why move? I think it’s called here-and-how-happy. That’s what I’m calling it, anyway.

I am in a quandary. To tweet or not to tweet? I’ve only been on Twitter for about ten days, and I’m thinking of jumping ship.  Now, don’t get me wrong. Twitter certainly has its benefits. I mean, I found out about the Balloon Boy in no time flat. And thank god for that, really.

But I have a few good reasons for pondering pulling a Miley Cyrus. First, I already spend way too much time checking email and Facebook and all my favourite food blogs every time I need a break from writing (i.e. every 15 minutes or so). Twitter is another time suck.

Second, frankly, Twitter kind of kills my self-esteem. Seriously. A friend once told me that the reason she avoids Facebook is because it makes her think that everyone is having way more fun than she is. Twitter is kind of like that for me. I’ll check it at 10 am only to find that while I’ve been sipping tea in my pyjamas, other people have won literary awards, interviewed celebrities, mentored entire high schools, and come up with way wittier things to say in 140 characters than I have in my last hour of writing. And then, instead of using that as motivation to work, I end up getting immersed in their experiences until next thing I know it’s noon and my tea’s cold and I’m still in my pyjamas.

Anyway. I’m just pondering it for now. And if I do end up going through with The Deletion, rest assured I will not compose a really bad rap to explain my motives. An opera, perhaps. Or a sea shanty. But not a rap.