How many times have I chanted this mantra over the years?
Even as I write this, every appendage of my body is sore. Even my hair hurts. I’m getting far, far too old for this.
Extra note to self: A 3-mile run the day after will not cure what ails me anymore. It will instead lock up my muscles, crick up my neck, stove up my joints, and otherwise add a little more character to kneecaps that look more like overripe eggplants than kneecaps.
No, I’m not talking about over-indulging in adult vices. That ship sailed a long time ago. I’m talking about moving, and all the physical labor that goes with it.
This time, we were smart about it. Realizing we were too old and valuable to put ourselves in traction, we spent good money for a moving company to get the huge, heavy pieces and several million boxes of items I hadn’t seen since the last three moves into a large storage bin here in town.
It wasn’t cheap, but it was money well spent.
Then, after finally finding a killer house here in town, we paid a couple of young, cheerful burly guys who do that sort of thing for fun and profit to move said heavy pieces and several million boxes from the storage unit to said killer house. They did this in record time, with smiles on their faces and jokes every three seconds, in a driving thunderstorm. In fact, the very second they crossed the threshold of our house with the very last box from the truck, the rain stopped.
But we still had to get moved from our temporary digs. And as it turned out, I sort of forgot about a few things.
One, we still had several large heavy objects to move. Two, we still had clothes, books, shoes and zillions of other items we had to move.
Three, I totally forgot about Tatum’s Theorem of Possession Propagation.
That is to say, my Beloved and I don’t actually accumulate stuff. In fact, we have donated, given away, hauled to the dump, and otherwise passed on literally thousands of items over the years in sincere and radical attempts to winnow down the sheer amount of stuff we had. Yet come moving time, everywhere I look, there’s more stuff ready for Bon Will, Habitat or Landfill.
That’s where the Law of Item Propagation comes in. You, see, I have actually discovered all those seemingly inanimate objects, from socks to salt shakers, are not only alive and well -- they all reproduce with a speed and enthusiasm which would make jackrabbits blush. In every drawer, in every closet, in every nook and cranny in the house, there’s an orgy going on. For example, take a gander at our shoe racks. Apparently, our shoes have been hosting these insane little swinger parties, all night, every night. How else can one explain how one pair of summer sandals is now inexplicably surrounded by several pairs of boots, five pairs of sneakers, three pairs of various slippers, and a pair of spiked heels neither of us has ever seen before?
Don’t believe me? Well, you know how when you’re all alone in your house and you hear strange squeaking noises? The house is not haunted, nor is it settling, nor are burglars trying to make off with your bad pastel portrait of your rich Aunt Millie. It’s your shoes, socks, old letters, new pens, the contents of your medicine cabinets, your kitchen cabinets, even your linen closets, everything you own, having at it all night long, a flesh pile unfathomable even to Caligula himself.
Think of it like some scene from an early ’70s soft porno flick, only with a better plot line and dialogue. Listen closely and you can probably even hear the “chickawacka chickawacka wah-wah” guitar soundtrack in the back ground.
Which makes me wonder: Do black socks wear black socks and sunglasses when they’re starring in these movies?
Disturbing, isn’t it?
I am appalled. This behavior must stop immediately! Therefore, I hereby decree, as Lord and Master of the House -- and I have my Beloved’s permission to utter such delusions out loud once in awhile for laughs -- that everything unrecognizable will go to Bon Will, Habitat, or Landfill, and with a quickness.
Of course, I will make an exception if I find, say, a newborn Les Paul Custom amongst my guitars.
After all, you wouldn’t kick a puppy into the street, would you?