Here's an astounding fact about me: As of June 1, I have lived in this apartment for 15 years. I'd like to put that in context for you. Remember when Bush 41 barfed on the Japanese prime minister? I moved in here six months before that. Billboard's No. 1 song was by Roxette. The Dow had just hit 3,000. And my wife, then a coltish 18-year-old, sat in PSYC 101 and pined for the near-sighted grouch who would one day sweep her off her feet.
Having been so aggressively sedentary for so long has deprived me of the joys of moving. True, you can number those on one hand, but one huge perk is the inevitable need to throw out half of your crap. Pulling up stakes isn't much of an option right now; my best hope would be either to 1) find something with half the size for triple the cost, or 2) build a lean-to in the Pine Barrens and commute. So we're doing the next best thing: We're moving without leaving the house.
Every morning, the boys can't wait to see each other. So we've decided to move them into the big bedroom and let them pummel each other with brotherly love while we nestle into the bed-sized closet in the back. And in order to maximize the fun, we're treating this like a real move by considering every item, packing up what we're keeping, and chucking the rest. Consideration has been rigorous: Do I really want to move this box of papers all the way over to the other room? Because that's almost 40 feet, for Chrissakes. Life is too short.
It's just like moving for real, except you don't have to pay the kid who works in the deli $10 to watch your rental van while it's double-parked in the loading zone by a fire hydrant. And no brokers.
We had a great plan to get a lot of stuff moved around today, but it went a bit pear-shaped when the sitter called in sick. So now Robert is here, demanding to "help" with everything, and TwoBert is waddling around and bonking into everything that shouldn't be where it is.
We're going to remember this day forever. Possibly longer.