Jeff and I have been married for almost 10 years. We have moved 7 times in that period, and have gotten down to a science what works for us. I do all of the packing. He does all of the orchestrating. I handle the movers and the utilities and he handles the loans and the closings and the money. While it is a bit annoying to be the sole packer in the house, I know just how I want things done, and having his grubby paws fondling my tape and boxes would make me simply crazy. It’s better for everyone this way.
However, when our latest (and last for a long, long time) move is a mere two weeks away and he comes downstairs to find me knee deep in boxes with newspaper strewn all over the kitchen and innocently asks “what are you doing?” I have to wonder if I’m letting him off the hook too lightly.
It’s called packing, my darling. And all those sweaters of yours that I can’t stand? That cologne that smells like an old man and the track pants you so adore that are fraying at the edges and you refuse to get rid of? They might just not make it into the box.
It’s only fair.