In seven more days I will likely be married, deathly ill, and a unicorn.

Last Wednesday: Started a new job that I was unexpectedly offered just two days earlier and that I had all but written off after interviewing two months ago.

Friday: Was suddenly informed by my landlord that he is selling the condo where I have been living for only eight months after moving five times in as many years and determining not to move again for at least a year.

Sunday: My roommate moved out. At least that was expected.

I'm glad for the job, and I'm glad my roommate will be reunited with her husband, but this week is just a compact slice of the last five years of constant change. And the condo... I almost cried.

I didn't realize how much I liked this crappy place until now that I have to leave. As much as I make fun of the hot tub under the skylight surrounded by "fancy" white pillars and decidedly non-fancy exercise machines, it really is so peaceful. And with all the old people here, the pool rarely gets taken over by screaming children and I often have it all to myself. And who's going to water my plants while flirting with my upstairs neighbor playing catch with his adorable four-year-old son if I'm not here?!

But I think the worst part is just moving again. I remember when I used to have actual hobbies, like sewing and baking... for the last five years my downtime has largely been spent researching jobs/apartments/roommates/churches, filling out forms, packing, unpacking, etc. I will be happy to never spend another weekend moving my belongings from one place to another place. It's enough to tempt me to get rid of everything and live under a bridge.

Seriously... is there some reason I'm not allowed to have stability in my life, no matter how I try?!