Moving. Say it around any apartment hopper like myself and you'll feel a shudder. Even if you score the real estate of your dreams, the moment after you sign the dotted line there is an endless inventory of things to relocate. Sure, there's the electricity, cable, insurance, yadda yadda, but it's the stuff that becomes actually very emotional baggage. There you have before you every item that was worthy to come between you and your wallet. The inventory is tough, and as a first world consumer I have a lot of it. I've scratched my head thinking 'so this is what I splurged on? When I retire, am I going to be happy to have degraded the size of a future nest egg for both Smashing Pumpkins cd sets and three different curling iron barrel sizes? Or will I feel like I really lived?' And if that's too deep for you then don't move in with me, because the evaluations have lept from my inanimate objects to my betrothed, but much nicer, as I do give credit that his Vitamix is appliance-proof adequacy to care for me. Or at least in smoothie form. Also, the spices - the man comes with a spice rack as diverse as my shoe rack. But it's there to share, unlike my very very personal foot accoutrements, which leads me to what I think I know: my things are for me, and his are for we, or so it seems with this many of our most important boxes unpacked.