I learned a very important lesson this week: Never start an extreme workout program during the week you plan to move all of your belongings from one house to another.
After my first exhausting workout left me with an impaired ability to lift heavy objects, or really any objects, I probably should have figured day two plyometrics would have similar results. It did. On my second day of moving, I had lost the use of my legs as well.
Needless to say, I didn’t get much done. So when the final two days came, and my dad and brother arrived from Iowa to help, it was crunch time even for a procrastinator like me. A rented U-haul and too many car loads later, we managed to get everything out of the old house approximately 20 minutes after we were supposed to. Even as I write this, my kitchen table is covered with boxes and my bed is yet to be assembled.
Still, it feels like home. There’s something about an older home, a place with little glitches and features that could use a little improvement, that makes it feel like a real home, a place I could make my own.
Our own. I’ve got to stop using the word “my.” I’ve got to unpack my husband’s clothes instead of forgetting and leaving them in the suitcase they’re in now. I have to keep in mind that even though I’m the only person living here right now, this is not my home; this is our home. And I have to put it together in a way that will be welcoming to him seven months from now.
After my first exhausting workout left me with an impaired ability to lift heavy objects, or really any objects, I probably should have figured day two plyometrics would have similar results. It did. On my second day of moving, I had lost the use of my legs as well.
Needless to say, I didn’t get much done. So when the final two days came, and my dad and brother arrived from Iowa to help, it was crunch time even for a procrastinator like me. A rented U-haul and too many car loads later, we managed to get everything out of the old house approximately 20 minutes after we were supposed to. Even as I write this, my kitchen table is covered with boxes and my bed is yet to be assembled.
Still, it feels like home. There’s something about an older home, a place with little glitches and features that could use a little improvement, that makes it feel like a real home, a place I could make my own.
Our own. I’ve got to stop using the word “my.” I’ve got to unpack my husband’s clothes instead of forgetting and leaving them in the suitcase they’re in now. I have to keep in mind that even though I’m the only person living here right now, this is not my home; this is our home. And I have to put it together in a way that will be welcoming to him seven months from now.