Penned on Friday, December 15th from the third level of Hell known as family obligation.
Oh. My. God.
My back feels like an army of T-ball kids have spent hours whacking at my kidneys with old-school Louisville sluggers. My legs are all rubbery. My head is being assaulted with a jackhammer. And my arms may never be able to rise above the level of my shoulders again. Umm . . . how am I going to shampoo and rinse, let alone dry and style? Anyway.
I had forgotten that it was possible to hurt this badly without:
· Completing a four hour training session with Billy Blanks at the gym, you know, like we all do
· Having really, terrific, amazing sex that lasts for hours
· Having really, horrible, terrible, jack-rabbit sex that lasts for seconds but seems like hours
· Being run over by a semi-truck and then run over again by the ambulance that was supposed to be coming to save you
Though, it is possible that I’m just old. And things that used to bend and bounce now crack and break. I’m ready to face the fact that my “nubile, lithe body” days are behind me. But dear Lord, if I feel this badly now, I don’t even want to contemplate the morning after. Oh. Oh dear. Just typing that hurt.
And with all this pain comes questions. Questions like: Why is it that when YOU move; your friends suddenly lose their cell phones, your family forgets you’re related and your significant other has a death in the family or a sudden work emergency? But when THEY need to move, oh man, you’re expected to be there with bells on, arms open, spine stiffened and knees ready to lift. Not to mention you’re supposed to have your mouth welded shut to prevent the following phrases from emerging:
You paid *CASH MONEY* for this?
What the *HELL* is this?
You’re sure you want this to go *THERE*?
I admit that I’m not the greatest at keeping my trap shut. I wasn’t born with that internal filter that the rest of you have. If it flits across my brain, it typically shoots out of my mouth. Thankfully, phrases 1 and 2 did not exit my oral cavity this evening. However, phrase 3 was quietly questioned (early in the evening), loudly inquired (mid-evening) and finally huffed angrily (the last 10 minutes of the move).
I hate moving. I realize that everyone hates moving, but I really, really, really, really hate moving. Loathe moving. Abhor moving. Despise moving. Getting the picture?
Though, I admittedly hold less disdain for moving other people than myself. Mostly because I have a very large “nosey” bone in my body that loves looking through everything they’ve ever owned. Moving someone is the one time in your life that you have free access to every wedding gift gone horribly awry, black-mail worthy college Spring Break picture, high-school dance commemorative t-shirt and Kindergarten handprint cement doorstop. No secret can be hidden, no lie will go unearthed. Their whole lives are spread before you. It’s Christmas come early.
Tonight, however, I was even more tolerant because the move was for my favorite cousin and his new wife – whom I have come to adore MUCH. But Cousin had the same difficulty we all do when we move. His friends and family vanished like virgins on prom night. Only his mother, myself and my brother remained true and faithful:
We’re here Cousin, we love you, we would do anything for you and don’t think for one nano-second that we won’t use this move as leverage for anything we ever want from you from this moment until the end of time.
By the way: I'll be calling next week for that 52", wall mountable, plasma TV that I so graciously held on this wall - no, wait - that wall, no, hang on, maybe it would be better over the mantle, oh oh or how about that wall? No, let’s just put it back the first place we had it. That’s where it looked the best.
I wonder if I’ll be nominated for sainthood for all I go through for my family . . .