Pace Is The Trick

Oh hi! I can barely walk, thanks, due to non-stop box toting and heavy lifting. Usually, I collapse into bed at night just PRAYING that my back feels better in the morning and yet knowing that it really doesn’t matter, for I shall lift again come morning. I am now walking around vaguely like a person who is approximately eleven months pregnant, complete with hands on lower back and jutting abdomen.

And sadly, that is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me lately, for when your life revolves around packing and Home Depot, that’s kind of the best you can hope for, in terms of blog fodder. It would have been much more exciting if I were, I don’t know, IMMOBILE or something, but alas, fake-pregnant duck waddling is the best I can do. And further, reality hasn’t totally set in that we’re moving, but it’s hard to deny that I am, in fact, blowing this joint in about a week and a half.

!!!

Excuse me while I go to collect my intestines from the floor after reading that statement again.

But anyway, you don’t need to be tortured this way, for I have MANY other mundane things to go on about, and aren’t you lucky? For starters, I attempted to order a pair of boots in anticipation of the grand freeze, and I thought Adam would shit himself right then and there, because NO BOXES IN THE HOUSE. NO MORE ITEMS. NO BOOTS. BOOTS COME IN BOXES. HAVE I GONE MAD? I didn’t know that a pair of Uggs (shut up) could cause such marital strife and though I am simply DYING to get a pair of footwear that doesn’t expose the entire length of my foot, I will refrain until we arrive in the Green Mountains, lest I tip Adam over the moving edge with Yet Another Pair of Shoes.

Also, I plan to wear my Uggs with shorts and Bohemian tops, like Kate Hudson. Will that offend anyone?

Speaking of Adam, and he’ll throttle me for this, but I was going on to Lawyerish earlier about one of the grand unfair universal truths: men get hotter as they age, and I’m living with a real, live specimen of this truth, and frankly, it’s really starting to piss me off. Adam is WAY hotter now than he was when we first started dating, and while I’m thrilled — don’t get me wrong — that I get more eye candy than ever before, I can say without too much self-deprecation that I have not, in any way, shape, or form, gotten hotter. Better hair, maybe, but that barely breaks me even when you consider the expanding hip-and-ass factor, along with the ever-appealing incredible shrinking boobs. I mean, maybe I’m more attractive because I’m older and therefore less irritating (less drama, less whining … orrr, maybe it’s just different. Forget it), but I haven’t gotten physically hotter the way he has. And it’s totally unfair. Delicious, but wholly unfair. I think these sorts of things should be doled out to couples EQUALLY, so that we can be equal in our hot factor. But alas, I am getting LAPPED, and he was ALREADY way ahead of me on this one before he went and got himself all distinguished with age.

I cannot take advantage of any of this distinguished-ness, incidentally, for not surprisingly, the stress of all the moving has landed me a wonderful case of Lip Herp, so not only am I losing the war of hotness, but as of this moment, I am going down in the smallest of battles, too. I’d also like to say — and cold sore sufferers will back me on this — that I have never in my life had more sympathy for genital herpes sufferers than when I have a cold sore. The VERY THOUGHT of such a tingly, painful open sore (ew, open sore! EW! That’s what it is? I HAVE AN OPEN SORE. GROSS) in that general vicinity makes me want to weep in solidarity. There wouldn’t be enough Valtrex in the world to placate me, and if there are any readers who are … lower herp sufferers, please let me buy you something pretty and shiny, like a Corvette, because Jesus, you deserve it.

Oh and ALSO, I’m watching Big Brother, and though there are many who eschew it for all of the usual reasons (the people are dumb, the content is reprehensible, there isn’t a likable person in the bunch like, EVER), I have to say: I’m addicted yet again. Something about that creepy slice of random, classless life is like television crack to me. I know, there are so many other things I should be doing with my time (like, say, packing boxes or massaging my lips with Abreva or bathing my dog, for she is emanating waves of doggie stink), but I remain riveted by whatever contrived theme they throw my way (Couples! Til Death Do Us Part! AND THE IDIOTS DON’T GET IT. LIKE, HOW HARD IS THAT? HOW HARD IS THAAAAAAT?)

*Interpol, who I adore, but I always forget. But dude, I dare you to listen to them and not feel cool, no matter how dorky you are.

29 comments February 18th, 2008