I Hate Moving

Well, duh. I mean, who doesn't hate moving? It's like saying "I hate getting punched in the face." The enormous hassle, the expense of time and money, the guarantee to lose and break valuable things, the chance we will accidentally pack the baby in bubble-wrap, the uprooting of all, uh, roots. Hate it hate it hate it.

However, I have a particular antipathy to moving because of my peculiar abnormal (weird) psychology. While in general I hold no truck in astrology, my protests are dimmed by the fact that I am a pure example of my starry destiny. I am a Leo (and in one remarkable blind-date oodles of years ago, I found out that I was born in the month of Leo and at the time of day when Leo was rising; making me a super megaton King Kahuna Leo). Leos are stereotypically redheaded hot-tempered megalomaniacs who eat a lot a time then sleep a lot afterwards. Uncanny, no?

The key aspect of lion behavior that the stars ordained for me, whether I wanted them to or not (and don't think I truly buy into this but in memory of Reagan, I'll go with it), is the creation of a lair. I love lairs. I love the way the word sounds. Lair lair lair. It's a noun, verb, adjective, interjection (e.g. "Lair!!!") and it's built into my biology due to deep seeded Latvian genetics, moonbeams, or God's little joke.

Lair Dynamics

A good lair is tuned physically, electronically, book-ally, and musically to my needs. When I create a good lair, I can stay there for days without leaving. One reason why I got the reputation as a masmid when I was in yeshiva was because my lair in the beit-midrash was more comforting than my meager pallet in the Kowalsky's basement.

When I move domiciles, and lairs, it will take at least one month to recreate everything I need to function again. Until that time, I am a lairless leonine zombie.

All this is to say that when we move, and my internet is cut, my books, files, and pens are boxed away, my clothes covered with infant nervous indigestion, you'll know why it's hard to reach me.

P.S. my brother thinks I'm more like a bear than a lion; but that may be because of the Simpson's snippet about "Gentle Ben" the talk-show bear.