Or, 3 Reasons Why My Wine Intake Has Significantly Increased During the Past Few Weeks
1. Bodily harm.
I have bruises all over my body from bumping into furniture and the sharp corners of boxes. I have stubbed toes and bloody hangnails and cracked cuticles and stiff finger joints from packing and unpacking a bajillion pieces of crap that I wish I didn’t have. Oh, and have you ever had a box cut? It’s like a paper cut on crack. If you get one, you spend the next three days wishing you were dead.
I am an extremely fussy person. I need order and calm. That’s, like, the exact opposite of moving. There.Is.Mess.Everywhere. Nothing where it belongs, piles of boxes and bags of trash, clutter on every surface. I mean, we’ve just now managed to clear walking paths and make some of the rooms look somewhat normal, but my Spidey-OCD-sense knows there is still disorder lurking in the corners and the closets and the shelves and the garage and the second bedroom. I’m twitching with freak-outedness. ::slurps from wine glass::
3. Existential angst.
Packing and unpacking = realizing we have way too much stuff. Seriously, we own heaps of rubbish. It’s so much more than any reasonable human needs. There are millions of people in the world who would give a limb for a roof over their head, a pot, and some food to cook in it. Meanwhile, I possess AN ENTIRE SET OF PILSNER GLASSES. Seriously, what am I doing with my life? Does owning pilsner glasses really add to my happiness? What is happiness? Am I happy? ::drinks directly from wine bottle::