Positive Lifestyle Change
Today for the first time I walked to work from my new house.
Thirtysevenmotherfuckingminutes.
I may have to start waking up earlier to get there on time. Or buy a bike.
Positive lifestyle change is hard1.
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Back to the house:
We moved in on Friday. The lawyer said we'd get the keys around 1pm. Of course, that means we didn't get the keys until 4pm. Lousy lawyers2.
What followed was close to a dozen trips in our car and my dad's van to the new house, broken up by a nice big greasy Swiss Chalet dinner (conveniently located right around the corner from our new house). We didn't end up getting to bed until 2:30am because we couldn't stop until we found our toothbrushes/clothes for the next day. Since everything was packed away in boxed stashed in the garage, this took quite a while.
We never did find our shower curtain. The next morning was quite soggy in the bathroom.
Since then, we've spent most of our days (and nights) cleaning the new house to get rid of 'the old people germs', as my wife calls them. 2:30am seems to be our new bed time since we can't justify going to bed while the house is still so dirty and disorganized. On the plus side, all the late night cleaning meant that we slept through church on Sunday. We made the house clean enough that by Monday night we didn't have to stay up to 2:30am cleaning, but then the stupid hockey game went to triple overtime, resulting in another 2:30am night.
It's been a weird experience. Hard to believe that we've got a house. Back when we lived in the apartment we didn't like to refer to it as 'home' because it was just a crappy apartment. But it felt a bit like home; it was comfortable and familiar. The new house doesn't feel like home at all. It feels weird and alien - almost like we're house-sitting for someone and we're going to be kicked out soon.
Some realizations:
-When the hell did we accumulate so much crap?
-How the hell did we fit so much crap into our old little apartment?
-My god, my wife has way too many clothes. About 6 huge garbage bags full, plus many still on hangers, plus a bunch of shoes and hats.
-We actually didn't move that far. We can still hear the train but it least it isn't in our backyard anymore.
1 I actually walked to work once from the old apartment when my wife took the car someplace. Fifty-seven minutes that time, but I managed to scam a ride home.
2 Please don't sue me.
Labels: personal
Decreed by King Aardvark @ 10:29 a.m.
4 Comments
4 Comments:
A thirty-seven minute walk is pleasant. I'd rather commute 37 minutes on foot than an hour by car, which is why I've made it a priority to live in the city.
37 minutes is not actually that bad. The fact that I tend to wake up LESS THAN 37 minutes before I have to be at work is a problem.
I'm not a morning person.
My husband just started walking home from work, and it takes him about that long. (I'd join him since we work together, but I'm pregnant, so no thank you.) He loves it. He's done it for two weeks, and so far he's lost 12 pounds.
Oh yeah, and we have moved 6 times in the last 5 years. Every time we've moved, I've chucked stuff, yet during the subsequent move, I'm still amazed at how much stuff we have.
Once you've walked it a few times I bet the trip will shorten. I started walking a while back, and have managed in a crunch to get down from twenty-five minutes to about eighteen.
I keep trying to rid us of superfluous crap. But then Mme Metro goes to Ikea again. However, I think I could live with the crap were it not for the superfluous cats.
Wife clothes aren't actually clothes. I'm not sure what they are, but she never wears more than three of the myriad outfits she has accumulated. She's gotten rid of two jumbo-sized garbage bags full of clothing, and still has both a summer and winter wardrobe.
It's like shoes. Women somehow accumulate thirty pairs of shoes, despite having (as a rule) just the two feet, unless they're Heather Mills or live near a nuclear power plant.
How many shoes do they wear at any one time? Two. So why do they need the rest of them? I think it's some sort of perversion of the nesting instinct myself.
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