O, sweet embrace of death.

We moved our office this week. Even though the new office was two doors down the hallway, the complex had some stupid ordinance stating we couldn't move anything down the front hallways during business hours. Also: They gave us two days to pack, move, unpack, organize, calibrate the equipment. On the first day, the construction guys were helping us move our files [we have Jeter medical file cabinets - twelve rows high, maybe seven feet. Hundreds and hundreds and. Hundreds. Of. Files. Per. Jeter]. They dumped one and broke another, thus leaving the rest of the seventeen-ton-workload to two doctors and myself.

The good news is that the slightly-too-tight-pants I bought a week ago are now beginning to slide down my hips when I walk. The bad news: I have been dragging boxes of files, equipment, boxes of contacts, solution, office supplies, mechanical tables around without reprieve for the last twenty four hours. I'd move for twelve hours straight, all the while consuming caffeinated beverages by the two-liter and by the time I made it home I'd be so jacked up on caffeine and so stressed about the move I couldn't sleep. I'm so panicky about all of this I'm starting to shut down. I can't answer the phone and - all of the sudden - the only things I can manage to eat are cinnamon bagels and applesauce. Everything else just seems so wrong. Also: I cannot function in messy environments. We've moved into an office that's at least half the size of our old one. There isn't room for anything. It just doesn't fit. I spent all of yesterday [our first day open in the new space] fighting back tears and yelling things like, 'I DON'T CARE I DON'T CARE OHMYGODJUSTCLEANIT BEFORE I HANG MYSELF IN OUR NEW TINY BATHROOM.'

The bathrooms, however, are neat and tidy.