My arms are sore. From taking out the trash. Admittedly, it was two bags of trash the majority of which were Great Value brand spices (I shudder to think). Still, this does not bode well for the pending move on Saturday. I'm already having cringe-worthy fantasies that involve the washing machine bouncing down the cement stairs of my apartment like a rogue pinball.
It's enough to make me start a bit of a fuss...I just texted The Mister: "Are any of your boyfriends going to help us move Saturday? They kind of owe you...", which they do. The Mister helped one of his now en-fianced friends move from Mobile to Biloxi and then to another town in Mississippi (opinion withheld). I know one of those days I was writing my thesis; for the life of me, I can't remember the other time I wasn't free to help The Mister move his friends further into the wilderness.
His other friend, The Mister packed and moved all of his stuff when he deployed to the desert for a few months back in September. Considering this desert trip didn't appear out of nowhere like a 10 lb fatsplosion, I think it's uber generous of my fiance to take care of his mate like that. If it had been me...well, I'm a woman, I probably would have thrown his things down stairs before putting them in a bag. Although, if I had power of attorney, I could treat myself to a massage after that work...hmmm...yes, this is why women just "do it themselves"...they know there are other women who think the same way.
So, The Mister's best mates owe him a helping hand. Will he get it? We'll see. In the meanwhile, I'm moving boxes to and fro. I've got linear bruises flanking my "biceps" and my arms are so sore, you'd think they were string cheese. I'm not sure how you're supposed to make that physical connection, but then, here we are.
No comments:
Post a Comment