One Of Those Things a Boyfriend Cannot Fix

I am moving tomorrow. Tomorrow, or maybe Saturday, I will once again have a dog. And my dog will need a schedule, like being walked. Which means I will not be able to come home and simply crawl into bed, which is what I have done. For the past three nights.

For the past three nights I have crawled into bed before nine. Often I have left the lights on, assuming that I would get up and turn them off later. Ha. Yes. That has not happened before 2 am, any of those nights, so what that means is that I sleep fitfully until 2 and then get up and turn the lights off and grab four more hours of sleep before my alarm.

I have gone to bed with bra and turtleneck and undershirt on, because it is cold, and I’m whiny and not good at cold. I’ve entirely stopped the practice of washing my face at night, or even brushing my teeth, and I take birth control in the morning now, so what this means is that I have structured my life around the ability to crawl into bed directly after dropping off my laptop bag, and I have done this, partly because I can, and won’t be able to after tomorrow, and partly because very stressful things like moving make me immediately want to crawl into bed.

I do not like moving, although I have certainly done it enough. I have to pack up my stuff, and somehow I feel like there is never enough time. Time to sort out what goes to the Goodwill, time to say goodbye to things I don’t need and organize the things I do need so I can find them again when I unpack. Just one time in my life I want a perfect move, where I have days beforehand to put stuff into boxes and LABEL them, god forbid, or at least have a general idea about what room they go into, and then maybe I can go and get a massage. I have a vision of movers, hired professional movers, showing up at my current place and finding neat stacks of cardboard boxes, all lined up with colored stickers on them showing what room they go into, and of course that would be pointless in my current life anyway because EVERYTHING goes into one of two rooms, as my kitchen is long and lovely but not wide enough to stack boxes in and still walk, so boxes can only go in my living room or bedroom, and there isn’t enough possible margin for error to require stickers.

My mother and father will be at my new place on Saturday (and I almost just typed “Starbucks”, Freudian slip much?) and I know they will like it, and LT will be helping me move on Friday, and his help will be invaluable, but no matter how much my parents and my boyfriend will be there, they cannot make my life somehow different, somehow pack for me, or mold my brain into the kind of brain that organizes and packs well, that sees no problem in starting off a large project with a few small steps, instead of looking at a mess and simply throwing up out of stress, or worse, crawling into bed at 8:30.

And when I am not crawling into bed at 8:30, I am writing blog posts, and more importantly, basing my entire perception of my own intelligence by taking online tests:

This test will drive you crazy, although not as crazy as I already am. According to the page, 19+ is genius. I got 21 before I got frustrated and stopped, which means according to this test I am apparently a genius. Maybe the good folks who wrote this test could come over and PACK FOR ME, since obviously I am a GENIUS about that, too.