You’ve reached the point in your life when people no longer ask you to help them move – not only because movers can be hired for a relatively reasonable fee, but because things that occurred commonly in your twenties would somehow seem weird in your forties. Plus, you in particular have your hands full with this whole four-kids-and-two-working-parents thing. And there’s the matter of that unfortunate moving accident that took off part of your finger in the summer of ’95. And the fact that you’re kinda lazy, and you’re an Olympic level complainer, and you have a low tolerance for back-breaking labor in the Texas heat. And if anyone actually DID ask you for help moving – especially in August, and especially in a different city that’s four and a half hours away – you would laugh right in their face.

Anyone, that is, except your brother.

Damn, damn, DAMN!

If I lose another finger today, I’m taking one of his.