My box(es)

"Gabby," Micah said gingerly, "can we maybe get rid of those boxes?"

"What boxes?"

"Your boxes. In the kitchen closet. Otherwise known as the pantry."

"But...we need those boxes," I said, nostrils twitching.

"I know you think we need them, but we could get boxes anywhere. We don't need to save every box that comes through the front door."

"What, so, we're going to have to go to Schnucks and get stinky produce boxes when we move? That's nasty. I've done that before. Nasty."

"You can buy--"

"Oh, no! NOPE! That's why I save boxes. Not only do I not want to pay for something I get for free all the time, but I am totally saving a tree by reusing boxes."

"But they take up the whole pantry," Micah whined, "and I didn't know you were such an environmentalist. I want to clean it out and use it."

"All of our food fits in the kitchen cabinets. Why do you want to move the food into the pantry? So each can of soup can have its own shelf? Stretch its legs a bit?"

At that point the situation became extremely amusing to me, because there's no way in hell I'm throwing away those boxes I've been saving all year. I find it ridiculous that he even asked, because we had a conversation about my boxes a few days ago and I thought I had stated my case convincingly about why we need them. Perhaps not.

"We don't need all those boxes!" Micah was clearly agitated, and clearly not swayed by my brilliant reasoning.

"Yes we do! PLEASE let me keep them in there. When next summer rolls around and we have a house to move into you're going to be glad we don't have to go get boxes. They're already here! Big ones, small ones. We don't have to go buy them and we don't have to hope and pray we get paper towel boxes and not moist and smelly lettuce boxes because the Schnucks employee we happen to ask is feeling lazy and bitter about a customer asking him to get off his ass!" Then I take a breath so I can continue. "You're just on a cleaning rampage and you're determined to organize every cranny. I know how you get. It'll pass. Please let me keep my boxes."

Micah laughed a little, not because he thinks this is all just so funny, rather, but because he thinks keeping boxes is totally fucked up.

Then Lost came back on so the conversation ended. I'm pretty sure I won. I'm pretty sure my boxes aren't going to be orphaned.

Then, during the next commercial break, I realized something kind of horrific. Under my desk at work there are...more boxes. Because I might need them when we move. I think I have a problem. I think it's a low-grade version of post-traumatic stress disorder. They say moving is the second most stressful event in life, behind the death of a loved one. I know I have mentioned this before, but I have moved TEN TIMES in the past 8 years. That's a lot of stress that I probably internalize and rearrange so it resembles excitement. I used to love moving. It meshed well with my tendency to get bored.

Recently, that has all changed. It definitely had something do with Micah and getting married, but even before we started dating I had an overwhelming urge to put down roots. Screw this moving every year thing. My address is never my address long enough for important documents, like driver's license renewal notices, voter registration cards, and personal property tax bills to actually get to me. I'm tired of it. I want to live in a house that I can love and take care of, where years of memories are made, where Christmas trees always go in the same spot and I can have walls that aren't white.

But that is not an excuse to be what I have become: a box hoarder. Only one thing separates me from those crazy fucks you see on Animal Cops - my boxes don't defecate.

Really, though? Am I not just extremely prepared for something I know is inevitable in the forseeable future? Why is it so bad to hoard boxes? THEY WILL BE USED. They will ALL get love, unlike the feral prolifically breeding cats. You should see this one box Micah brought when he moved in - it's HUGE. With handles. And he is suggesting we throw it away?! I am quite obviously not the crazy one. One thing I've already learned about marriage is that it's basically one big compromise. For the guy. Even the minister that married us told him a joke about how from here on out it was "Yes, dear."

(They say the first step is admitting you have a problem. I already did that but I am retracting it, because pshaw!)
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Married Lady Bidness

Why is it necessary for every one of my coworkers to say "So, how's married life?" every time they walk past my ubicle?* I find this intensely annoying, but that's what happens when you're as antisocial at work as I am - people just keep repeating the same lone fact they know about you. This is almost as bad as when I first started working here and made the mistake of telling one highly clueless coworker that I liked Blues hockey. From then on he came to my ube almost every fucking day to talk about the game. The game that I didn't watch. Again. Nope. Leave me alone. (He says he's married, I'm thinking mail-order.)

*a ubicle is a cubicle with one side missing, which makes a U shape, and yes, I did just think of that myself because I am brilliant. (See also: Boxes, why I keep.)