Thursday, January 26, 2017

Forced Moving

If not forced into moving, I would lounge about in bed all day, every day. There would be a lovely silver bell on the night stand table that would rush a butler to do my bidding with every shake. When I close my eyes in contemplation of such a glorious fate, I can see him leaping over our dogs, flipping over the couch, and skipping down the hall to serve my flimsiest desire:

"Chocolate caramel topped with sea salt?" the butler would ask. "Green tea with a hint of lemongrass? Latest Pickles comic, or today's NY Times? How can I best serve you, oh great writer?"

But the butler has been on vacation since before I was born. And so I am pressured into seeking out these personal preferences all on my own.                                                    

In order to get what you want, do you, too, set yourself up with irritating naggers? A whistling tea kettle that shrills out the order to attend to it, so that you can have your cup of cozy tummy warming hot cocoa. A Zumba exercise teacher who demands that you move-that-body in the quest to have at least a semblance of healthy body and heart. An annoying alarm clock that will not shut up every single weekday morning so that you can fulfill yet another day with checking off your list of things-to-do today.

The creative naggers we set up for ourselves is over-the-top madness. Why don't we all leave well enough alone and go back to sleeping in until bedtime?

Who is responsible for the outrageous idea that life is meant to be lived?

The biggest, most obvious moving that we do, is move all of our stuff into a different house, sometimes even to a different city, for goodness sake. While I was not the first to partake in this silly practice, I have been overly guilty of over-indulging in it. The longest I have ever lived in one house has been four years; my average is two.

Why? The reasons are as varied as the creative naggers in your life. Every thing from a better job in a different city to wanting to experience life in another country. The reasons are irrelevant, it's the moving that is the BIG issue today.

My asinine addiction to writing is yet another thistle like burr that slave drives me into moving. In order to get this horribly intelligent, relentlessly witty post to you, I must have a computer. Last week, the dearly loved, decade old Mac abruptly died while I slumbered. After a couple of days of sleeping in until bed time, I was dragged into taking action by ordering a new computer. And how do I pay for this thing? I sale books. And where do I write the books? On a computer.

This entire vicious cycle translates to one thing: I have to move my entire body off the bed and on to the computer chair and desk. See what I am getting at? I have to actually move. No one else, not even a real live, not on vacation butler can do it for me. Life has become one immense series of moves. Ugghh.

In the end, I have at least achieved one thing in my life: I am a Master of Moving. And this leads me to wonder what things you have mastered in moving. What movement exercises, creative  nagger ideas, or ways to get out of bed? What cities, counties, countries? What states of mind? Please, tell me in the comment box below. If you don't satiate my desire to know your movements, then my mind will dwindle in idleness, thought process become stagnant in non-use. Please, do not burden me with such afflictions.

If you want to know my not-so-secret wisdom of moving tips, buy my book on moving with a twelve pack of beer (or wine or donuts). It is quite the read:

Moving: Are You An Intelligent Mover?

Missions for today: comment on your moving experiences, and buy one of my books. That should get you going until bed time.

Heather Leigh,
Mistress of Moving

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