Boxes

Today I am finishing packing for storage. This is a process I loathe. Instead, I would prefer to hire this out because they are professionals, I tend to blindly combine lightbulbs and paper weights, and I only have a fleeting sense that something like a fireplace lighter and WD-40 cannot live well together.

For years I have complained to my wife about her desire to save boxes. Years, again and again. I open a closet and stuff falls on me. I open a cabinet and things jump out at me. We have things tightly stuffed away in puzzle-piece fashion.

We receive boxes in the mail. We receive boxes on sale. We receive boxes with toys. We receive boxes that make noise. We receive boxes with lights, oh what a sight. We have boxes in stacks, racks, sacks, and fumplefacks.

My loathing of packing is only surpassed by my disdain for clutter. My desk at work has nothing on it. Colleagues are skeptical of me as though I never moved into it, like it was a temporary space. While I do have this opinion about office spaces, it is reinforced by my desire to throw everything away. Maybe this describes the following reaction.

Her: The trashman comes today. I need you to put all the trash in the garage by the curbside, and any boxes you find have to be broken down.
Me: Ok.
Her: I'm leaving now. I'll be back. I have to go get a diet coke. (We have an entire refrigerator full of diet coke, but for some reason we must spend an extra $10 per week on fountain stuff).
Me: Ok.

Ten minutes pass. I walk to the garage to start my chores... Omg. The wall is stacked with 472 small boxes that have to be broken down, and all I have to help me accomplish this is a Philips screwdriver. Everything else has been packed.

An hour passes. I'm still breaking down little boxes with a plus screwdriver. She pulls into the driveway.

Me: I hate you.
Her: What?? You hate me? After all I've done?

She throws a bagel in a sack at me. It bounces onto the garage floor as she brushes by me in a huff. Lucky for me, the bagel was still yummy.