So it finally happened. I was forced to give up my life of laziness and engage in actual physical activity. I’m talking manual labor. I’m talking picking up heavy stuff and carrying them from one spot to another. I’m talking running up and down flights of stairs until my legs cramped up. I’m talking getting my hands dirty and ― oh the humanity! ― sweating! I hate sweating. There is nothing good about it and I don’t care what the fitness/health nuts say, if I have to lose a few years off my life to avoid this gross unpleasantness, so be it.
What calamity, you are undoubtedly anxious to discover, arose to warrant such an extreme alteration to my destined way of life? Moving, that’s what. I know, I know, no one made me sell our old house and buy this smaller, easier to maintain, really cute bi-level, with hardwood floors and a front loading washer but still . . . I wasn’t prepared for the, well, work involved with transferring all one’s belongings from one abode to another. Especially an abode half the size which means half the space which means you have to get rid of half your stuff. There is no way around it and no matter how you crunch the numbers, you can’t squeeze an apple into the space of an olive. . .
So after one thousand trips to the Dakota Boy’s Ranch to donate all our excess stuff ―I drive a VW Beetle and while you can fit a surprising amount of stuff in such a tiny vehicle, it is still a VW Beetle― by which time all the workers knew me by name, I was ready to leave all the rest of our stuff at the old house and just buy new.
Sadly, I did not have the fundage to go that route and besides I really do like my stuff. So we packed and loaded and unloaded and unpacked and arranged and rearranged and cleaned and organized and cussed and fussed and cleaned some more (It’s amazing how much cleaning an empty house requires!) and finally got everything to fit mostly. The kitchen is backwards from our old house and I have to sit at the other side of the sofa to watch TV now but, all in all, everything is good.
Okay, everything worked out so what’s my problem? Well, now that I’ve been to the other side and seen what it’s like to be . . . busy and . . . productive and . . . not lazy . . . I’m worried I won’t be able go back to vegging on my lovely sofa whiling away the hours doing absolutely nothing.
Oh, who am I kidding. I may have temporarily lost my Club Lazy Card but I haven’t lost my mind. I’m not suddenly going to turn into one of those zealots who think relaxing is a sin. Hold on . . . I just spotted some dust bunnies lurking under my sofa . . . Gotta go . . .