The McBournie Minute: Moving

Forgive me if I seem a little beat this morning, last night I was up watching Your American League Champions, the Boston Red Sox.

There comes a time in everyone's lives when it's time for a drastic change. In such a time, one calls on their friends, preferably the burly, male ones, for assistance. The true friends will answer the call and help however they can. The change I am speaking of, of course, is moving.

When one moves to a new place, they realize how much crap they really own. The next realization is that they do not have nearly enough boxes to hold all of the crap. Luckily, this does not affect the friends, who are there primarily to move the big stuff like furniture. This past weekend I was such a friend. Why? Because I am a good friend, and I was offered payment in the form of alcohol.

I also realized that I am probably the only person who gets nostalgic about moving. In the past it has taken me much longer than it should to pack things up because I get nostalgic about the place I am leaving. You could move me out of a prison cell, and I would be in there, slowly removing my effects from the shelf, thinking, "Oh, how I will miss my roommate, Bubba."

Moving is more or less the conscription of your friends into service. I was charged with helping bring a new couch up to my friend's new place, only to find out the elevator wasn't big enough, and the stairwell barely was. We grappled with couch up the stairs, occasionally getting tossed against the walls and getting cuts and bruises all over. We got the couch up the stairs finally, but more importantly, I got free booze.