Throughout your life, you recognize certain universal milestones: your first kiss, your first car, the first time you awaken in a bathtub of ice chips with playful tattoos all over your torso (Javier, you ARE a kidder!).
These things serve as signposts, as reminders to stop and feel the breeze of life passing by, rather than just hurtling headlong towards an ignominious death like usual. Well, friends, I recently discovered a new milestone, and I'd like to share it with you.
No, not quinceañera; turns out that was already a thing. I'm calling it "The Furniture Tipping Point," after that Malcolm Gladwell book and this time me and my buddies got hopped up on cough syrup and dropped a couch off an overpass.
The FTP is defined as the point at which you've accumulated too many possessions to move without the aid of a rented truck. My wife and I contracted FTP just this year, when upon marrying we were "gifted" (to borrow from the Facebook terminology) several large bookshelves and a giant mahogany dining table. She also got "poked," but that's a photostream for a different blog.
I've moved five times in the last six years, and never has it entailed anything more than shoveling things of import into my Corolla and leaving the rest for the dust of time to return to the earth. Or building owners to throw out, whatever.
Once, I was a child, without responsibility and able to move at a moment's notice, lightened by lack of responsibility. But now I'm a wise old snail, carrying its possessions on its back like an albatross, anchoring the ship of his life like some sort of heavy-laden mixed metaphor.
And in a few months, as the nice men from in front of Home Depot load our heavy possessions into a truck to be driven to our new home across town, I will sip Hi-C from my favorite Buzz Lightyear cup, wrap an arm around my wife Dr. Pickle, and think "now I am a man."
These things serve as signposts, as reminders to stop and feel the breeze of life passing by, rather than just hurtling headlong towards an ignominious death like usual. Well, friends, I recently discovered a new milestone, and I'd like to share it with you.
No, not quinceañera; turns out that was already a thing. I'm calling it "The Furniture Tipping Point," after that Malcolm Gladwell book and this time me and my buddies got hopped up on cough syrup and dropped a couch off an overpass.
The FTP is defined as the point at which you've accumulated too many possessions to move without the aid of a rented truck. My wife and I contracted FTP just this year, when upon marrying we were "gifted" (to borrow from the Facebook terminology) several large bookshelves and a giant mahogany dining table. She also got "poked," but that's a photostream for a different blog.
I've moved five times in the last six years, and never has it entailed anything more than shoveling things of import into my Corolla and leaving the rest for the dust of time to return to the earth. Or building owners to throw out, whatever.
Once, I was a child, without responsibility and able to move at a moment's notice, lightened by lack of responsibility. But now I'm a wise old snail, carrying its possessions on its back like an albatross, anchoring the ship of his life like some sort of heavy-laden mixed metaphor.
And in a few months, as the nice men from in front of Home Depot load our heavy possessions into a truck to be driven to our new home across town, I will sip Hi-C from my favorite Buzz Lightyear cup, wrap an arm around my wife Dr. Pickle, and think "now I am a man."
Is this a repost, or was the other one maybe (that hiking-up-a-hill-to-get-fit one)? I swear I've read these posts/blog entries before.