I hate boxes.
I hate any and all boxes. I hate big ones that come double reinforced. I hate the small ones that have the premade easy to carry handles because they always fucking rip. I hate the thin ones that you can never seem to get a comfortable grip on and the fat ones that force you to lift with you back thus proving how very, very old you are. I hate my lost youth as well.
I hate the ones that you have to buy because you are to damn lazy to go begging for boxes and you would prefer that your clothes don’t smell like Panama Bananas. I hate the boxes the boxes that come with the cutsey little picture on it, in our case—the Huggies boxes that we have been using. They look so smug and so happy, my guess is that it’s because they don’t have to deal with the very box that their picture is on.
I hate all these boxes. I hate all boxes that ever was or shall ever be.
I hate the guy that invented boxes. I want to kick him in the nuts and scream “See what you have done to me! Now get me my Icy Hot!” I would then stuff him in a box.
But most of all, I hate everyone that must put stuff in boxes. For you, a special hatred in my heart swells every time I see someone putting something in a box. I hate you FedX people, I hate you UPS people, I hate you bulk mailer people. I hate you all, so very very much.
I hate you all and everything that the box stands for. I hate it because at some point, at one time or another, I’m going to be forced to lift that box. It won’t matter who’s box it is. It won’t matter where in the world it is located at. Eventually it will make its way to my house and I will be forced to lift it and because of that, I hate everyone in the boxing industry or anyone even remotely associated with it.
We are in the process of moving and I am tired of boxes and I am tired of lifting them. I am tired of grabbing the untold boxes that I have used over the last week and trudging them up and down the stairs. I did not realize that I had such an aversion to boxes until this and now my hatred are cemented in the deepest wells of my soul.
I’m the only one in this house that lifts boxes. Little Hoss tries, bless her, but she just craps her pants. Been there. You have to breath through your nose or it’s going to happen every time. Let Daddy teach you. Bubba Hoss can throw up on boxes and I appreciate the effort.
Hossmom on the other hand, can only pack the boxes. She will do no lifting of the boxes up and down the stairs. But I have only myself to blame for this.
Hossmom and I were together when I was a young and dashing 19 year old. There was no such things as “back problems” then and my legs were as strong as pillars. My arms were the cannons of rightousnous and I could lift all the live long day. For some insane reason I thought that the more that Hossmom saw me lift heavy things the more impressed she would be. So I lifted everything. She would need to vacuum, I would pick up the couch one handed. She needed a Lazy Boy chair brought up three stories, on the back it went. I got her believing that I could lift anything at anytime, and I would wait for the O’s and the Ah’s that would surely lead me into her pants.
Now I am 33 and have 2 kids, things have changed but the boxes remain. I have moved Hossmom around 8 times, almost always by myself or with very little help. I have created the Hossman legend and I am afraid that even myself have bought into it. I am a believer of my own propaganda. I am William Wallace and if the English were here I would smote them with firebolts from my arse.
And as a result, Hossmom does not pay attention to what she puts into those boxes or how big those boxes are. All she knows that she needs a box to put lead weights into and the first one she gets is the one she uses. On the sly I have tried to convience her to use the small boxes for the heavy things, like books. Ya know, so it would break the box. And those pillows? Well, those go into the big boxes.
I figured that way I could keep the propaganda going, afterall, I still want to get into her pants. I could lift the small heavy boxes one at a time—or two at a time if she is watching. And the big boxes filled with pillows, well those I could make an example of how big the box is and look how the sweat glistens off my ever expanding forehead.
But she is spoiled and pays no attention to what I say figuring it is only friendly banter and not a way to avoid a hernia.
So big boxes get stuffed with old bricks, ya know, because we might use them in the new house while small boxes have become a myth along with my lower lumbar vertebrae. And I can’t back down because she still watches me and I continue trying to impress her with feats of strength because it would appear that I will never grow up.
I had the bright idea this time to hire movers. Genius, I tell you, genius! But Hossmom, clearly not concerned with my glass ankles, stated that we still had to do a lot of packing so that people seeing the house would not see how much a pack rat she is. And she is, good lord help me, she is. It runs in her family. I once saw her mom whip out a 1983 Polaroid camera from a closet and place it in a box. I think that they both secretly hate me. Eventually, I was required to lift that box.
And this life will continue until I can no longer lift any boxes. At that time, Hossmom will go and marry a guy named Chester, who’s 19 and thinks that lifting boxes are fun. I think I hate Chester most of all.