Boxing Poetic
It’s spring. I wander outside wearing a jacket and wool hat. Three blocks later, I’m already melting. I return from the bottle shop with a stovepipe of Lagunitas, amounting to 2.3 standard drinks,1 and I open the windows. Within twenty minutes my jacket and hat are back on. It may be warm outside, but bring the outside in, and it gets chilly right quick. The windows must stay open, regardless.
My apartment reeks of off-gassing cardboard, boxes stacked high along the southern wall. I’ve been getting a little packed each day before and after work. So far, I’ve only managed about half of what needs to be done. It’s tiring and tiresome and made all the more challenging by the fact that there isn’t enough room to clear an effective staging area to work in. I’m climbing over things, tripping on things, sitting on surprising things, shouting at whatever it was I stubbed my pinky toe on. The scene is a havoc. My toe, black and blue.
The only practical strategy is to burn through some PTO. I’ve taken off Friday, Monday (moving day), and Tuesday (unpacking day). Tonight, I will deal with transferring the cable internet subscription to the new addres, and then fold and pack laundry. That should net a couple of low-effort wins. Or maybe I’ll just a write a blog post and deal with reality tomorrow.
Footnotes
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I’m watching my alcohol consumption closely as of late. The scientists say it’s bad for your brain, and I need my brain if I’m going to write blog posts. Also, whenever I drink enough to have fun times, I get wicked bad hangovers. And booze gives me migraines sometimes, not always, but it doesn’t take much to set one off when it does. And alcohol is a terrible GERD trigger. It also increases your triglycerides, which I don’t need any help with. And I’ve lost a healthy amount of weight from not imbibing the extra calories. My blood pressure seems to be going down as well. And frankly, this beer isn’t even that good. In summation: I’m old, kids. Old. ↩