The Boss and I, after three long days, are finally moved out of our apartment. I am more sore after this move than I have been after any other time we've moved over the years, and that's saying something. Who knew you could pull muscles in your thighs that stretch from the knee into your groin?
You'll have to excuse me, but I'm lacking the cognitive powers to come up with anything else for a post today other than a list. So, here are ten ways to know you've got too much junk:
- When a 14-foot rental truck cannot transport all of your possessions at once,
- The thought of breaking into your neighbor's attic storage closet and putting some of your unwanted crap in with theirs so it means there is less for you to carry presents itself as a viable solution,
- Friends who help you move once won't help you move twice,
- You know exactly how many steps it takes to get from your vehicle to your third-floor apartment,
- You wish you could throw your things out the window to save trips on the stairs,
- Shareholder value in plastic storage bin manufacturers skyrockets whenever you move,
- Your 10-foot square storage unit has every inch of floor space utilized, and things are still stacked up a good two feet above your head,
- The sheer number of boxes you have to move convinces you that your possessions multiply at will when left alone for extended periods of time,
- When the people at Goodwill or Salvation Army know your name,
- You spontaneously lose sentimental attachment to things the closer you get to your deadline.
Every single one of those statements ring very true for The Boss and I. Sometimes I think that we're one mobile home short of an episode of "Hoarders."
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to dose up on painkillers and alcohol.