Step One: The Purge


When you get married and have a couple offspring, it is literally awe-inspiring the amount of “things” you accrue. Jerky makers, waffle irons, bassinets, hideous crystal items, plastic fruit, an over-abundance of hemorrhoid items (due to a crippling fear during both pregnancies) and enough bobby pins to replicate the Eiffel Tower and near perfect ratios.

So, now that it’s time to move 31 hours away it’s time to purge all things crappy that take up a hideous amount of your space. No, I will never make jerky. No, I don’t think crystal will make a comeback. It all had to go.

Once we made up our minds to move West, we started selling everything. Furniture, beds, tables, EVERYTHING. Facebook friends snapped up most and curb pickers got a good lot of filth but we still had a LOT. It was time for a rummage sale.

Well, once we managed to dump the majority of our possessions in the front lawns, I sat and waited for buyers. During a lull, my husband decided to drive 45 minutes away to run an errand, leaving me to wheel and deal.

About 20 minutes into his vacancy, I was moving a chair to the edge of the driveway and tripped on the edge of the asphalt, fell and heard all the tendons of my left ankle snap and crack.

Great.

As I writhed in a pile of moist leaves, screaming and moaning like a Life Alert commercial, I realized I didn’t have my phone.

Better.

After about five minutes of blinding pain and a string of swear words so dirty they make me cringe recalling them, I managed to crawl through (literal) broken glass to my phone. As my husband rushed home, I couldn’t move. I sat in a chair with thousands of leaves, worms and sod all over my body while people shopped my sale and I pretended not to feel like I might need an amputation.

Finally, after two walkerbys tried to take advantage of my whole scene and I almost gave them everything for free to force them away from me, my husband returned.

I drove myself to the hospital. My legs were No-Shave-November-hairy. Found out my ankle was sprained. Received a giant black boot, crutches and Vicodin and wheeled to the curb. Realized when I got him that the ass of my pants ripped when I fell.

Now, I get to pack a five bedroom house with crutches, a ten pound boot and a deep pain-killer haze.

Why wouldn’t this happen to me?

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