All I can say is WOW. Hubby and I just moved house over the weekend. My muscles are screaming at me in 17 languages. Still.
Do you remember being young? Do you remember being able to move house on a Friday and Saturday, unpack everything on Sunday, and then still have the energy and fitness to go out dancing on that Sunday evening? I used to be able to do this. I also remember my dad telling me that one day it would all change. I would find myself feeling 25 years old but being, well, far older than that and less capable. I laughed at him. I scoffed. Me? Less capable of lifting 45 boxes of books and four rooms full of furniture? HA! “Okay, dad. Whatever you say,” I used to utter to him with a smile.
Well, my dad is vindicated. The day has come. I can no longer: (A.) Fit almost everything I own into the back of a 1978 Honda Accord. (B.) Move all my crap in two days. (C.) Live to tell about it. I am now dead. Dead, I say! My fingers refuse to type the correct letters. My arms are so sore I can barely lift them, not to mention my once sturdy German thighs that used to love me are now flipping me the bird, figuratively-speaking.
My hubby and I joke about being rich enough to “pay people to move us”, but we know that we are waaaay too control-freaky to ever do this (even if we had the money to do it) and we move way too often. We would go broke. We have moved five times in five years. Seriously! We are not running from the law or our creditors. We’ve had to follow various technical writing contracts to keep the funds coming in during these horrendous economic times. We’ve done what others are often unwilling to do in order to keep working, keep the money coming in, and keep paying “The Man”. And, we have, largely, kept working through it all, but it’s been so, so painful on so many levels.
This time, we moved to a house that we scooped up for a deal and rehabbed over the last two months. We can save some bucks on the ol’ monthly payments by living over here and renting out the house that we were in for the last two years. Moving is sadomasochistic. Plain and simple. It’s akin to cramming seven days of working out into two. I’m so glad it’s over. Now, all we have to do is dig out from the mounds of boxes all over the place, but frankly, if that takes the next year, I’m fine with it. Seriously. Let it sit there. I don’t care if I look like a hoarder. It stays where I dumped it. LOL!