I spent last night packing up the basement of the house where I grew up. You’d think that would have led to Tea and I finding precious objects from our childhood while discovering forgotten memories. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. What we did last night was put books from the library into boxes. That doesn’t sound so bad, right? Put the box together, put the books in it, tape it up, next box. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. WRONG! Between Tea’s fibromyalgia and me being embarrassingly overweight, what should have been simple for people in their 20s became a pain filled evening of monotonous torment. I used to tease my father when he complained about back pain. Not in a school yard bully kind of way, but still. I now understand his anguish. The worst part is I know that it’ll just get worse as I grow older, especially if I don’t ditch this weight. I can’t imagine what Tea went through. She started in the morning, I showed up later. That’s right, it took an entire day to pack the staggering amount of books my family has collected and kept throughout the years. By the end I started wishing I could just look at a pile of books and hold the G key on some imaginary keyboard. This would, of course, make the pile of books bag itself like in Payday 2. Then I could toss them around all I wanted and they wouldn’t tear, bend, or otherwise lose value. *Sigh* that would have been wonderful.