I hate moving. I think for the first thirteen years of our marriage, Shawn and I moved every single year. And except for one glorious summer when Shawn got out of the Navy and Uncle Sam sent over a moving company, we did it all by ourselves. Just us, a borrowed truck and any of our friends who would work for beer (back then, there wasn't a shortage). These days, I doubt I could find one person. Lately, we've had to deal with Shana and all of her paraphernalia. We've U-Hauled up and down the I-10 five times so far. Now, needing to vacate her apartment after only one semester, I was dreading it, still sort of tired from the August trip. I reserved a truck. I decided to let Shawn off the hook and made Shana promise that she would round up some strong guys to do the loading. She agreed. Then realized, after loaning out a sofa and a dining room table, all she really needed that wouldn't fit in her car was her bed. She found a friend with a truck and, along with her adorable Junior Prom date plus, surprise, surprise, her first BF, they showed up with a mattress, box springs, headboard, mirror, two nightstands and lots of fun catch-up stories about how they've all been doing while I was warm and pain-free in my house. I loaded them up with cash and chocolate and waved as they drove off. Probably to buy some beer.
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