My mom moves stuff. All the time. I've never quite figured out if she likes moving crap, or if she just needs to feel like she's getting something done. Mostly, she rearranges boxes (many of them mine) around her house. Could be she's passively telling me to get them the heck out of her basement, but I'm going to assume she just likes having them there for something to do with her weekends.
I, for one, can't see the enjoyment. We've moved twice now in the past 8 months and I'm pretty sure I'd rather have the flu than do it again.
Aside from the manual labor portion, once you finally get everything you own tightly packed and taped into boxes, maneuvered into an overpriced U-Haul, bounced into the new place, and strategically placed in all the wrong rooms... you go to bed for a few hours and wake up to find that instead of your stuff, you must have packed rabbits because there are twice as many boxes than there were last time you looked - and none of them hold what you need at the moment.
We moved Saturday. It is now Sunday evening, and I can only find socks and underwear. Hopefully I can locate at least one bag-o-clothes that are mine because I'm pretty sure the people at Monsoon's new school won't appreciate my husband's-boxers-and-a-sports-bra ensemble, which I've been rocking for the past 24 hours, when I take him in for Kindergarten registration.
When You Desperately Need a Little Soul Care, This
4 months ago