Moving week

It's moving week.  To say that I'm stressed out about this would be the understatement of the century.

This guy isn't stressed, though.  He keeps hearing about how amazing his new back yard is, and he's getting ready to sniff all kinds of new things.

We spent a good chunk of the weekend packing things up.  We don't get keys to the new place until Friday, but we prefer to be prepared.  AKA Ammon knows that I'm not sane and that if we aren't at least moderately prepared for this move, his life will be incredibly miserable for the next 3 weeks or so.  The last time we moved, neither of us were entirely sure our relationship would survive the fallout.  We're married now, so he doesn't get off the hook that easily anymore, but there is no sense in making it any harder than it already will be.  So we packed up most of our kitchen, and almost all of my section of the closet this weekend.  Lordy, lordy love a duck, we have a crap ton of stuff. The kitchen stuff we packed took up six large bins, and the clothes are currently residing in one large suitcase, 3 black 30 gallon trash bags, and part of a large moving box.  If you would have asked me 3 days ago, I would have sworn to you that there was no way on Earth I had that much stuff.  I was incorrect.

What is even more terrifying is that despite all of the progress we seem to have made this weekend, it feels like a drop in the bucket compared to what we still need to get done.  I envision at least 2 moderate anxiety attacks in the next 5 days.  On the bright side, all of this packing and moving burns a ton of calories, so I have even less guilt than normal about my unusually large sized portions.  I am the only woman I know who finishes her meal, and then works on finishing whatever is left of her manfriend's meal too.  Running has reduced me to this, my friends, and it isn't pretty.

Somehow this didn't get shared from our trip last week, but it is such a perfect representation of me at every post long run meal.  We were on our way to a funeral, so I classed it up and tucked a napkin into my cleavage.  And for those of you wondering, my standard order is a double double with grilled onions, fries, and a chocolate shake.  I ate every bite, and those 1700 calories were some of the happiest, most fulfilling I have experienced in years.

I feel like this post just possibly took a turn for the worse, and so I think it's time to part ways.  But before we do, I want to know:  Can you out-eat anyone in your life?  Any awesome moving tips and tricks you can share?