Moving: what's it good for?

This past weekend, I told Mister Mister that I would help him move.

In my mind, this was a commitment to appear in a mostly supervisory capacity, with a peppering of light lifting if something like a pillow or a bottle of cologne needed to be taken to the car. In his mind, I was promising to lend my blood, sweat and tears to one of the most annoying and difficult undertakings known to the young and mobile.

Moving. I hate moving.

In fact, I have lived in my apartment for almost 4 years now; and not because it is my favorite place in the world, or because I like the haunting sound of hobos rummaging through my garbage at all hours of the night. No, I haven’t moved because the fact of the matter is: I am perhaps the laziest person known to man-with the exception of maybe Paris Hilton and the entire cast of the Real World: Seattle.

I am so lazy, that I will pick cloths up off the floor with my feet so that I won’t have to bend down to retrieve them; I will wait several days to get my mail so I won’t have to carry it; and, I am so lazy that there has been a bag of shoes in the trunk of my car for over a year now, because I don’t have the energy to bring them to a cobbler.

So you can imagine my surprise when Mister asked me to help him carry his T.V. stand because it was too big for one person to carry.

Luckily, Mister is a good boyfriend, and he didn’t press the issue when I told him I was there for moral support rather than to carry anything to the car or to help him pack his glassware.

Three hours later, after the last box had been loaded into the car and the last scratch on the wall had been subtly painted over with White Out, Mister and I drove off into the night; Mister with the exhausted but unwavering knowledge that he still have hours of work ahead of him, and me with the hankering for a chocolate ice cream cone and some hugs.