We've been moving furniture out of our dining room so that Christina can paint it. It was full of a number of objects besides the dining room table and chairs: Bob's computer desk and filing cabinets, three tall bookcases stuffed with books and a comfy armchair. Bob did all the heavy lifting, but I'm the one who feels tired. Osmosis, I guess.
When you move stuff, you suddenly start thinking about what you can get rid of -- in my case, books. I donated my Harry Potter series to the library this morning, but the rest of my books are still sitting on the shelf. If I give them away, I'll have room for more, but it's difficult to part with old friends. Thus my tormented inner monologue: I'll probably never read that one again. (I pick up the book and open it.) -- but it has nice illustrations so I'll keep it. (I open another one.) God, I forgot how good this was. Maybe I'll re-read it before I give it away. And so on. No wonder I'm tired.
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