Part of my problem, I suppose, has been the stress of moving. Last week, I packed up the last five years of life in my very first apartment and moved it all of 20 feet into a larger apartment in the same complex. In doing so, I had to safely store all my belongings, which included bundling my collection of books, and schlepping them down the narrow, unsteady stairs and into my new (humble) abode. The process of moving my books— which took roughly two hours (during commercials of Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice last Thursday)— left me with this mess:
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| Well read AND well exercised, that's for sure. |
After 72 of the most stressful hours of my life (between packing, moving, disposing of furniture and acquiring a few new pieces for my new place), I am finally in... and almost unpacked at this point. Almost.
Once I finished cleaning out my old apartment on Saturday, I ventured over to the new one with the intention of sitting down to relax. I set up my TV and DVD player and settled onto my futon with the full season of Glee, Season 1. Needless to say, however, I didn't do much in the way of relaxing; instead I set to work putting together my masterpiece, the bookcase:
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| Pièce de résistance |
The books are arranged in no particular order (mostly because I have way too many to want to even try arranging them in some sort of coherent order), but the DVDs are in alphabetical order. If there was any question as to whether I am my father's daughter, I think I just put that issue to rest.
I still have to unpack a few more totes and will have to move the items from my storage area in the basement and hang up the assorted wall art I have, but I suppose now that the hard part is done, I have more than enough time/opportunity to kick back and catch up on my reading.
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