The Great Exodus Part II

What makes moving so hard and so awful and time crunching and soul sucking is what makes it so awesome. It is a rebirth of sorts but we all know how hardcore birthing is. Just go to YouTube, click on "ICK" and then scratch your eyes out. Or get pregnant and then apologize profusely to your vagina and all her neighbors.

Moving is a fresh perspective that helps you see new things. But be very careful. It can blind you and burn your retinas if you don’t have UV sunglasses and a rosy outlook. Sparkly clean cupboards are the best, newest friend a girl can have except when the girl in question cannot organize them and has NO IDEA where her Goddamned, most beloved spatula is.

“Hey, you know that antique spatula you love, the one that looks like it fingered a forest fire?”

“You mean Smokey The Bear?”

“No, Smokey can’t get fingered. He’s a whole-less cartoon character.”

“You win.”

“Found it in the linen closet next to your high-waited stretch pants from 1994 and some river stones we tripped over while humping on our honeymoon.”

“Ah, now my life can fully move backward.”

Let’s not even discuss the fact that I, I mean she, cannot find her shoes, her Kindle, her reading glasses, which does not seem to matter since her Kindle is MIA and not reading is super trendy or her Good Time Charlie outlook.

Okay, breathe and be honest. All this complaining has so little to do with the move and so much more to do with my fucked up, phantom, unclear and unresolved running injury that I have promised the gods of exercise that I will never again run on a treadmill if someone, anyone can please, tell me what the fuck knuckles I did to my hip/groin/lower back/calf last winter. Pick one or more.

Moving sucks for sure and I do hate having to dig around in the garage for my favorite pair of boots or the Goo Gone or an small glass figurine that I just know will change our new living room design from amazing into F-amazing! But there really is no other reason for my severe frustration than my constant pain and pathetic discomfort. I have been hobbling around, not exercising, not fornicating and not undulating the way I want and need and should since LAST NOVEMBER!  

And now, after two MRI’s, one panic attack, three x-rays, thirty appointments and hours spent on highways and bi-ways to get to these dreaded, shit-stained appointments I am now on steroids and back to physical therapy and not taping my shit or writing my shit and doing my shit I need to do. Let’s not forget the fifth upcoming, root canal follow-up and a mid-morning freak-out and you have yourself a real life Telanovela without spray-on make-up, big hair, shiny dresses or 8-inch stilettos. Nope. All you get here is the bottom of the laundry hamper on fire with nothing to put out the flames except a dirty bucket of tears and some flat tonic water.

"I wish I had a butt hole," he mused.