Sloth

You know how it's supposed to go when a couple has a new house that needs a lot of work. You've seen the montage sequences in the movies or on the HGTV shows. They walk around in work-appropriate clothing, wielding lots of tools (power and other), and end the day (or montage) covered in a) dust, b) sweat, and c) flecks of paint.

I am not holding up my end of the bargain.

We have been here nearly 72 hours, and I have worn no work-appropriate clothing and wielded no tools.

I have installed nothing, fixed nothing, painted nothing, organized nothing (I swear!), and hauled nothing.

OK, I'm not supposed to haul anything right now. No heavy lifting, no major stretching, nothing that might pull at my stitches.

But I am certainly capable of the other stuff (with appropriate instruction as needed).

I just haven't felt like doing it.

I've read, I've watched TV, I've taken my first walk around the neighborhood. I've made a couple of smoothies and a cheese plate (not at the same time). I've gone with Zach to the hardware store, to the fruit stand, and to the supermarket.

But I have not really labored in any way.

Meanwhile, Zach has a) installed a sink, b) assembled our new gas grill, c) thoroughly organized our nascent kitchen, and d) traveled hither and yon to try to resuscitate our slowly dying car battery.

All I can seem to do is nourish his efforts with occasional offerings of food. Not real food, mind you. Just the aforementioned smoothies and cheese plate. Oh, and the two slices of leftover pizza that I just heated up for him.

I'm not in any pain. I'm no longer bloated. I was actually able to wear normal pants today.

But somehow my internal gear shift is stuck, and I can't seem to get out of sloth mode.

If it weren't for my size and general appearance—if one went by activity level alone—it would be awfully hard to distinguish me from our cats right now. In fact, both of them are sleeping on our bed as I write.

At least I had the decency to move to the couch.