Can You Get a Packing Hangover?

No, really.  Can you?  Because if you can, that's what's ailing me.  I woke up with a headache, body aches and completely exhausted.  My stomach even felt testy. 

Yes, I'm moving.  Isn't moving a joy?  I actually don't mind moving itself, it's the packing up for the move.  All together now . . . UGH.  My biggest gripe is that no matter how much you prepare, you're never fully ready for it.  I guess that's my fault but you can only do so much before you get your boxes or crates.

I did elect to go with plastic recyclable boxes this time around versus the traditional cardboard box.  The good is that they are delivered to you (and picked up from your new destination), they stack inside one another when not in use and you don't need tape.  I repeat YOU DON'T NEED TAPE.  No "installation" whatsoever.  Yes!  You also don't have to worry about breaking them down once you're done or having them collapse while in use or being stacked.  Or worse . . . having some rogue spider come crawling out at you.  There is also no secondhand embarrassment because you are carrying your kitchen wares into your new place in a KY or hemorrhoid cream box (which you, of course, took from behind Ralph's.)  Plus the recyclable boxes I got are pink (pink is for girls!) and pretty.  And it is so important to remain stylish while moving (ha).

The bad is that they do take up a bit of room, which I did not consider when I selected how many to rent.  Oh well, bygones.

So my home currently looks like a Bebe Gallini factory (shout out to The Brady Bunch - - anyone get the reference?) although not in the shape of a powder puff.  Just pink.  Everywhere.   

My mind is also everywhere, trying to remember the last minute things I need to do in addition to my usual daily activities.  And oh yes, work.  Work too.  Yesterday I left my house without my mobile phone.  Not good. 

Today I left and went to the gas station because once I get close to a quarter of a tank, I get edgy.  I pulled up to the pump, popped my tank cover and reached for my bag.  No wallet.  NO. WALLET.  Close the tank cover, jump back in the car and go back home to retrieve my wallet from my sofa, where I left it last night after having to dig out a credit card.  Return to the gas station where all the pumps are now in use.  Of course.  Wait.  Get a pump and notice that previous plan to check the air pressure in all tires with my new device while gas is pumping must be scratched because a garbage truck is currently idling by the air machine.  Finish pumping gas and notice the garbage truck leaving.  Hooray!  Not so fast, Will Robinson.  A sleek BMW slides into its place, a man gets out and walks away.  To where, I'm not sure but it doesn't appear he is actually putting air in his tires.  Hmmmm. 

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit

Decide that it may be best to deal with my tires after work, given that I did not bargain for returning home to retrieve wallet.  Will make up time to work by speeding a little bit on the toll road.  (Yes, I was going 75 . . . okay, 80. Tops.)  Fly by one of California's finest.  No, no, no.  Slow down, place hands at the ten o'clock and two o'clock positions while simultaneously watching for flashing lights in the rear view mirror and praying that the officer doesn't come behind me to pop me for speeding. Prayers answered!  Officer either sitting on the side of the road to intimidate and screw with people, napping or eating a donut.  Regardless, I am relieved and happy that I did not get pulled over and therefore forced to embarrass myself by the crying jag I surely would have slipped into. 

That was my day before eight a.m.  And it's only Tuesday!  Tuesday!   

So don't tell me there is no such thing as a packing/moving hangover because I surely am suffering with one.  What is the cure?  Please don't tell me hair of the dog.