The Crying of Lot Me

I am guilty of coveting apartments on craigslist. I want to do all of the fun parts of moving right now, and ignore everything icky. Boxes are icky. Cleaning is icky. Loading the moving van is the ickiest ick of all. And with that, I complete my experimental foray into the mind of a 12 year old girl. Things must cease to ick after the age of 12. It is the law.

After two long months of denial, I returned to the gym yesterday. And it hasn't changed. My body, she has changed, but nothing else. I am shamed by Celebrity Fit Club into jumping up and down for an hour, squeezing heavy things between my legs, and then lifting whatever can't be squeezed above my head and back again, wiping the sweat from my nose with a blue hand towel, and occasionally wishing for death. (and by death, I mean for those around me)

Everyday I get home from work and look around and think, damn, this is an awful lot of shit to move. Do I really need that plastic Christmas tree? Methinks ebay and goodwill are needful adversaries in this war against kibble. But don't worry, you'll be the first to know if I let my precious tree go on the auction block. Or my precious 80's audio tapes, or the Supertroopers DVD.

This morning I tipped over a boiling hot cup of coffee on my desk. Normally this would make me sad and set the tone for the rest of the day. However, my current situation allows me to simply pick up the soiled paperwork and drop it in the trashcan. No regrets. A quick wipe of the paper towel, and the world is good again. Disaster averted by apathy.