13 November 2008

I may not make it through this.

This move may kill me. Or at least give me an excuse to see a therapist. I hate packing; I put off even packing a suitcase until the very last minute.

We've lived here for two and a half years and you wouldn't believe the crap we've accumulated. It boarders on ridiculous, really. I just spent a good portion of the late afternoon going through the cabinet above the range hood and the file box in the bedroom. It doesn't sound like much, but that was totally enough for today.

J comes from a "packrat" background. God love him, it makes me crazy. I come from a "pitch it" background. And for some reason, the packrat in this marriage has slowly taken over. I just tossed out overtime checkstubs from a job he had before C was born; that's previous to 2002! Oh, I should correct that; I put them through the shredder. That poor shredder got a workout today, that's all I can say.

And while I am slowly losing my mind in the chaos, J's only response is "I guess we have our work cut out for us." To which I want to reply, "What in the WORLD do you mean WE?!?! Have you ever packed for a move??" Actually he did for our last one and after the complete randomness of all the boxes that he packed, I swore that he was never packing another box.

Thank god that we have 29 days before we close on the house. I'm gonna need every spare minute. And the number of a good therapist.

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