It’s finally over. Sort of. Yesterday, Girlfriend and I spent most of the day hauling various bits to the new stomping ground. Everything went fairly smoothly and it only came to about $40.
The cost effectiveness and physical exhaustion were necessary given my current situation. But throughout the day I was one spilled box from a panic attack. As that may sound absurd, please allow elaboration.
Back a bit ago, I moved furniture for less than a living wage and pathetic tips. It was not my finest hour. I spent some time packing on pounds working an office job and put it behind me. Until yesterday.
Every slow trip on the elevator, unsealed box or awkward strain to long-unused muscles took me back to slaving over other people’s things while they watched, paranoid, like bum-winged hawks with nothing better to do. (How’s that for a run-on?)
It was a horrifying experience not even close to worth it. I will find a way (selling organs? fluids?) to afford someone else moving my things. It’s not worth flashbacks to giant armoires, fire-proof safes or the throbbing of all my muscles screaming in anguish simultaneously.
Wait, what was I talking about? Oh. Right. I’m now closer to the action* so you’re up for meeting, drop me a line. Hmm… that doesn’t seem to be the point at all… whatever. It’s hard to keep a train of thought with a stack of boxes mocking you from the corner.
* herein meaning Lyle’s Liquor Lounge
