Friday, January 25, 2008

Movin' on up

I'm moving into a new apartment--renting a room, actually--next weekend, and as such I'm being reminded of exactly how much I hate packing. Unpacking is no problem; you're working with the flow of the universe, order tending to disorder, the second law of thermodynamics, spreading your shit out all over the house. Packing, I contend, is actually contrary to the laws of nature, which is why it's so hard. You are struggling against the universal pressure of entropy. It's a Sisyphean task.
It also doesn't help that I'm one of those sentimental sort of people who keeps every little bit of correspondence, every little memo and jot from anyone I've halfway liked over the years. Even if it's just a post-it note with someone's handwriting on it, you never know when you might need to work some voodoo on someone, and if you can't get ahold of their hair or toenail clippings, a handwriting sample is the next best thing (I'll leave it up to you to decide whether I'm kidding or not). So I have boxes of that stuff in addition to all the standard books and clothes and computer and random CRAP that accumulates over time. Where does all that stuff come from? Have my papers been reproducing under the bed at night? I know for sure my shoes have been budding like yeast in my closet, producing a pile of black shoes that are almost identical but just different enough to justify keeping them all (a well-known and documented shoe survival strategy).

I'll be moving in with three other people, a cat and a Jack Russell puppy. The place is close to work, and is close to (though not exactly IN) the hipper parts of town. In the summer, pretty much every place worth being will be bike-able, which makes me feel good; like I'll finally be able to be a proper self-righteous biking, messenger-bag-carrying, semi-co-op-living, vegetarian liberal.

This morning it was a balmy 18 degrees when I went out to start my car! I didn't have to scrape the windshield, and I could touch the steering wheel bare-handed without fear that I would have stripes of frostbite on my palms and fingertips. Supposedly it'll be in the 50s by this weekend, which means I'm going to take the new North Face jacket my friend A got for me and go for a run outside. A day without a treadmill is like a day without a spike in the head! God I hate treadmills, especially the one at the Y I go to--they're all mounted in front of TVs, and for some reason I always end up on the treadmill in front of the TV tuned to the Fox News network. I usally make it to my target heart rate before I've even begun running because I'm so pissed by the partisan crap. Did you know that watching people make false generalizations about homosexuals and quote self-serving rationalizations for economic policy could be part of your daily fitness routine? Try it, 'sfun! *Not recommended if you have a heart condition, hypertension, or have ever abused conservative news outlets in the past. Talk to your doctor about whether 'stupid sh*t' cardiovascular therapy is right for you. Be certain to balance your intake of Fox News with an equal or greater quantity of real reporting, such as that from the BBC, The Daily Show/ Colbert Report, Mother Jones, or AlterNet of the Independent Media Institute.

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