On moving and things

Moving is hard, and the pent up anxiety leading up to this whole strangely-orchestrated ordeal made me crash mentally and emotionally more than I have in a long time. I couldn't bring myself to blog last week because all I wanted to do was whine and cry and say things I didn't mean because my mind was in a bad place.

We made it through, we are now in an apartment better suited to our needs, and we are exhausted -- Mike more so than me, given he has bigger muscles and a better center of gravity, making lifting and carrying vaguely easier for him than for me.

Bonus for me, though: watching Mike heft things like they're nothing is a major turn on. Unfortunately for him, I'm more turned on than normal and he's just tired and not really feeling it. 

Mike's long-suffering son was with us, which has been difficult on many levels. One, it's hard to explain to an eight year old why we have a collection of collars and whatnot, plus we have to carefully open boxes in case he gets an eye full of a neon pink jelly toy that no one should know I have. 

Being an adult is hard. Being a sexually interested adult moving from one abode to another is also hard; I think I lost a few pounds praying that none of my toys "went off" in transit. It's bad enough the one mover spent almost an hour total in our bathroom. I don't need them speculating on what I put in my lady business.

I'm not sure this has much of a point. I haven't been able to relax yet, I don't know where my box of toys are (Mike packed them, and I'm not entirely convinced he didn't hide them in the hopes of driving me crazy by withholding orgasm), but here's hoping I have something better to talk about in a few days.

Happy New Year, everyone.