Body Issues Ow Ow

Ow.

Jesus monkeytit ballfockers. Ow. Every part of me hurts. I feel like Emeril went 'Bam!' on the balls of my feet and now all they need is some olive oil and a little garlic powder and they are ready, tender, and delicious. And red. And purple. And achy, like the rest of me. My hands have that perma-red thing going on - you know how they get when you press them against the leather in a car for 20 minutes before you've lost all feeling in your paws? Yeah. Like that. And my back, obviously having wised up to the fact that I need it more than the rest of me, has gone on strike. It's like, "Oh, you want to stand up? Want to lie down? Pretty hard without ME, huh buddy? Yeah! You like that!"

I digress. Jess and I moved the majority of our stuff down to Alexandria today, and by "moved" I mean "hauled" and by "today" I mean "oh my God it took all fucking day." Having loaded the 16' Budget Truck-From-Hell (I mean really, you couldn't even afford a tape player? a TAPE player? bah), we headed down the PA Turnpike at a stunning 55 mph, careening past trees and slow gophers with aplomb.

It was then, of course, that my body decides to throw me a loop. Or rather, a poop.

I have a long and storied history of getting "the shits" at inopportune times: hotels with no air-conditioning, airplanes over Spain, hostels in Spain, etc... (Did you know that fruit in Spain is actually rather gross, especially when you are hallucinating from the Norwalk Virus?). It's like any time I want to leave my comfort zone, my body has to flush out (I'm punny!) the memory of the old place and absorb a new one. It's still bothering me now, bubbling and gurgling like witches brew, doubling my toil AND my trouble.

It was especially inconvenient when I went to lift the heavy objects. I think I, in association with my netherpurses, redefined the meaning of "self-control."

Just to give you a sense of how much stuff Jessie and I moved (inlcluding her stuff which we picked up in the Springs):

8 small boxes
6 medium boxes
5 large boxes
22 trash bags full of things that SHOULD have been in boxes
6 mattresses
5 chairs
1 piano keyboard
2 headboards
1 futon
2 end tables
1 coffee table
(almost) 1 175lb television
etc... writhing in pain... etc...

Also, there was an 18-step climb to the apartment, and we couldn't park the truck directly outside because, oh right, it was rush hour in Washington, DC, and, oh wait, we don't have keys to get in and then, uh, we drop the TV on Jessie's finger and have to run to CVS at midnight for Bactine and, uh, there is no shower curtain...

So. I am going to bed. Right now. And when I wake up, I will re-evaluate this whole situation with a little more "wow" and not so much "ow."

Yours (what's left of me),
Martin