After six weeks of packing and moving, Amy and I spend most mornings soaking in a hot shower and rubbing each other down with Ben Gay. I doubt either of us has a muscle that doesn’t ache.
No matter how much you work out, moving finds muscles that aren’t in shape and applies a sadistic amount of pain. Add to that skinned knuckes, bruises from bumping into things and too many items dropped on too many feet and toes and we greet each day with aches, pains, moans and gripes.
Instead of “good morning,” the first greeting of the morning is “damn that hurts.”
Almost over. We leave an empty condo behind for new owners on Friday. The movers arrive that day to transfer the last of the furniture to the storage unit, we put the cats in the carriers and pack the Liberty for the 300-mile drive to the mountains.
With luck, our offer on a new house will be accepted by then and we can start working on moving into a new home, which — of course — means more aching muscles and sore joints.