Another day, another case of writer’s block. Mind Bump to the rescue again:
Do you spend too much time on the internet? What should you be doing right now instead of blogging?
A particularly fitting question. Herself’s mom came up here yesterday to help with the post-extraction convalescence. I think she thinks we live in squalor. While we don’t have an insect or plague problem, on some level, she may be right.
Most of our living room is filled with boxes that haven’t been touched since the movers dropped them off. I claim there’s a Catch-22; the boxes take up all the room where we might unpack the stuff from them. My years spent studying Murphy’s Law leads me to believe that the minute we dig into them, something will happen that would cause us to move, and I can’t abide wasted effort. Also, the cats like to climb on them. Really, though, it’s that we’re lazy. Really, really lazy.
The armchair psychologist explanation I have for why the boxes sit there is that it’s a battle of who could care less. I think we both believe that it’s mostly the other person’s stuff, and thus the other person should take charge and do the unpacking. We both bring a certain stubbornness to the relationship that resembles the same sort of thinking that brought about the Cold War. It would be impressive if the side effects were something more constructive than a minefield-like array of junk all over the floor.
I’m not mad about it — I don’t bear any significant ill will over the pile as it’s as much my fault as hers, although I do swear to myself every time I stub my toe or crunch something as I make my way to the balcony door. It’s just there, a sort of monument to tenacity. I like monuments, they offer a sense of history. I wouldn’t necessarily miss it if it were to go away, though.
So, instead of writing this story about the boxes in the living room, I should be doing something about it. That, in the end, is often what blogging is all about.