Moving On Up

It was Friday night, and Rob was helping me move the contents of my apartment into my new residence. This was officially an acceptable time for panic. The movers were slated to arrive at 8 am the next morning, and my goal was to have ONLY furniture for them to move. As my plan – which had been devised weeks earlier in the period affectionately referred to as “deluded beyond belief” – also called for the packing of NOTHING, we had our work cut out for us. Instead of “packing,” I had been carting things over in boxes, emptying them on the other end, and then returning with the box to do it all over again. This had been working quite well until it was actually time to be moved.

Despite the absolute UNFUN nature of this event, Rob and I managed to almost enjoy elements of it. At the very least, we didn’t whine or swear too much, despite our exhaustion and the valid reasons for it. By the time it was nearly midnight, we were too tired to carry on. The decision to sleep was made, with the understanding that we would rise early enough to make another trip to the new place, vacuum it, dissemble the bed, take the top off of the desk, finish boxing some things, etc. Clearly our fatigued brains were tricking us into believing that we could actually afford the time to sleep.

Saturday morning, the alarm went off at 6 am. For a short time, I considered the ramifications of NOT waking up before the mover’s arrival, but only entertained the idea with any seriousness for five minutes. First order of priorities: The pets. Second: coffee. Rob and I hopped in the car to make a run for our only hope of getting through the morning. Unfortunately for us, the chosen coffee source did not open until 6:30 am. As we sat in the parking lot, contemplating the locked door, we struggled to stay awake. This was seriously cutting into our preparation time.

Minutes later, we were back at work, only slightly impaired in our thinking. Efficiently, I closed various critters into cages and stacked them all in the empty closet, where they sat – frozen in shock and horror – for approximately two minutes before launching into a cacophony of whining protest that would continue through the entire move.

Rob, meanwhile, was hauling items out to my vehicle, which we were filling with the remaining items that we did not wish to entrust to the movers. On one of his trips, he was greeted by Strange Shirtless Neighbor. [Strange Shirtless Neighbor is a generally cheerful fellow in his forties who has resided in my former apartment complex for nearly a year. In that time, I have only seen him sporting a shirt a handful of times. Every other time, including in the winter, he has been shirtless. It appears that he is quite comfortable in this state, although I myself felt a bit awkward when he would engage me in conversation. Unfortunately, he engaged me in conversation every time he saw me. This was particularly odd when we found ourselves together in the fluorescent intimacy of the underground laundry room. Strange Shirtless Neighbor has been monitoring my move with a great deal of interest.] This morning, his engagement with Rob was as chipper as always.

“Wow.” He exclaimed, noting the armful of things that Rob was carrying. “How much stuff can you fit into one of these apartments? Is she moving into a bigger place?”

Rob indicated that yes, I was indeed moving into a bigger place – a two bedroom.

Strange Shirtless Neighbor seemed pleased. “That seems more her speed.” Rob agreed politely, continuing on his way.

At 8 am, the movers arrived. Immediately Rob and I struggled with the age old dilemma: How to look busy while the movers are working – to avoid looking like slackers – while staying out of the way of the movers. We retreated to the kitchen where we proceeded to feel lazy and sympathetic for the second mover, a gentleman that I would – frankly – describe as practically elderly. This went on for some time, until the bedroom had been emptied and we escaped to that room, where we lounged on the carpeted floor. By then, fatigue had overtaken our concerns of appearance.

By the time we made the trip over to my new residence, Rob and I were consumed with hunger. Alas, we had no choice but to continue to accompany the movers. This we did, and once again we positioned ourselves in the kitchen. Our guilty feelings reinstated themselves as we munched on snack mix while the movers struggled up the stairs, heavily burdened with awkward furniture. The elderly mover grew very chatty, perhaps in an effort to avoid additional trips up and down the stairs.

“I bet you’re liking that kitchen,” he commented approvingly on one trip. “That’s a good one.”

I concurred.

A few trips later he paused to ask “You thinking of doing some repainting?” He had a smile on his face that suggested that I would be insane to NOT do some repainting.

“Well,” I replied, unbothered, “That IS the repainting.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Finally, the mover recovered. “I see,” he replied, at a loss for more words.

I tried to maintain a straight face. It appeared that my carefully chosen assortment of vivid paint colors did not strike him as a situation that one would CHOOSE to live in.

The movers continued their work, and – four hours after they started – they were done. Rob and I were surrounded by my material possessions, in my new home. We had additional work ahead of us, but first things first: It was time to retrieve the furred/feathered family, and it was time to eat. With those thoughts, we were once again “on the move.”