This weekend was pretty much spent in running shorts and a tee. We did the whole ‘let’s throw everything in a box and we will figure it out later” type of move. And here I am, still trying to figure it all out. Also, my husband is a stage 1 hoarder of adolescent memories and I am his interventionist/not his favorite person right now. I was raised by the opposite of a hoarder — meaning if I wasn’t careful my mom would donate a toy if she didn’t think I was playing with it any longer. Needless to say I kept my toys in heavy rotation and still to this day I have a priceless collection of Beanie Babies, that I’m sure will provide a nice retirement for us one day when I sell them to an investor on eBay. As soon as I get through all of my husband’s boxes, he will have nothing left of his childhood but faint, distant memories backed by no evidence, just like me. Did I even have a childhood? I will never know.
By Sunday afternoon, after looking like a scrub all weekend, I was having dress-up withdrawals. So I looked at my husband and said “we’re going out and I’m wearing a pretty dress.”
We went to Target and I didn’t wear makeup, but it wasn’t cleaning out boxes and we bought some wine. I’ll call it a date.