Packing it in

I'm not sure if there's anything in the world quite as aggravating as packing boxes for a cross-country move.

In my own typical anal-retentive fashion, I have a schedule. The goal is to finish roughly a room a morning before I have to go to work. That way I don't have to do too much with my one open day Thursday. It's a brilliant plan, really.

Except I hate moving. And I hate knowing each day when I wake up, I'm going to be packing these big blue Sterilite boxes I've purchased.

The most amazing thing happens when you try putting everything you own in a box. Through some magical agreement between the physical world and the physically moving world, everything starts taking up more space. While you know you're putting a bunch of things into one smaller, confined area, somehow your entire apartment looks like Sanford and Sons' junkyard.

It's coming along, though, and I'm relatively confident whatever doesn't get packed in time for the big move Friday ought to be flammable enough that I can just burn it where it stands. After all, there's no problem so big a gallon of gasoline and a match can't fix it.

[If, for some reason, my apartment catches fire in the next week, I'm now officially in deep doo-doo.]