Day One is spent recovering from the past weekend in a fashion widely regarded as heroic, sorting through closet after cupboard after toybox trying to discern what precious relics can be deemed nostalgic necessities and which are simply Klingons in need of a wiping.
Day Two, we scour the city streets for boxes and bags enough to store what belongings we didn’t relegate to the Goodwill pile and begin stuffing our lives into neatly movable containers. Watching your life transform from glowing candles, bunk beds and the dinner table into a stack of labeled cardboard brews a realization of our Lego lifestyles.
Day Three breeds the seemingly endless scaling of stairs and moving trucks stuck in traffic jams. At some point I feel the muscles in my arm screaming oxymoronic as they simultaneously bulge in supermanic satisfaction and crumble beneath the weight of my own massively heavy television. A moment of pity for those with larger screens, I double over the night into sleep.
Day Four and final, the colorful remnants of our dandelion kitchens, our ninja turtle living rooms and our hazy sky on dried mustard bedrooms give way to the landlords insistence on presenting a whitewashed world to his new tenants. Of which, I might add, he is lacking.
Day Five marks a new month and the end of a work week, signaling fireside chats at places with names like “Chad’s House” ignite the promise of a burning hot summer of love in store for anyone in a six degree radius of myself.
And, of course, Day Six will prove to be the true day of rest…