There are many things for which I strongly believe I have now become too old. Those really short tiered skirts, for instance, or overnight music festivals where you have to camp in a field. I am also, at thirty, too old for standing in bars. I’d like to sit, please, if that’s okay. Could you move your beer for me, young whippersnapper? I need a place to put my Metamucil-laced glass of sherry. And my false teeth.
I didn’t know it until this morning, but I am now also too old to move without movers. Every single move I’ve ever made before this one---both by myself and with Sean---has been just me, a U-Haul, and a whole lot of brute strength. But there comes a point in your life, I think, when you have shoe-horned so much stuff into your tiny one-bedroom apartment, that you can no longer bribe your friends with pizza and beer to help you move it. You need to throw money at the problem at this point. You need to bring in the professionals.
Internet, I must tell you that hiring movers to move our stuff twenty minutes across town this morning is absolutely the best money we’ve ever spent. Notice that I said this morning: it took them just four and a half hours, from start to finish, to get all of our furniture and boxes out of our apartment, into their truck, and into the right rooms of our new house. Had Sean and I attempted this ourselves, we would still be doing it. We would probably still be doing it tomorrow as well. What’s more, we would have scratched everything to pieces, I bet, and be paying overtime on the truck. Instead, I am now sitting on my couch, in my new living room, four and a half hours after sitting on my couch in my old living room. How civilized! It blows my mind!
Part of me feels a little guilty paying people to do something I’m perfectly capable of doing myself—remember, we’re the sort of people who got a thrill from making our own wedding invitations---but the other part, the bigger part, the part that didn’t have to do any heavy lifting, is actually…pretty much okay with it. I mean, come on, we’re about to re-tile our entire kitchen floor by ourselves next week, I think we can still maintain some DIY cred.
Our movers, in case you’re in the market for some, were excellent. When they first showed up, they looked like three sullen teenage boys with hangovers and I thought oh great, we’ve got the B team, but they soon perked up and started hustling stuff, as though in fast-forward, out of the apartment, down the steps, and into the truck, lather, rinse, repeat. They thought my accent was hilarious too, and took to parroting me when I said “garage.” Garridge, they’d rib good-naturedly, want this in the garridge? After thirty minutes of having to ask me where certain cardboard-wrapped mystery boxes should go, the youngest of the three beamed with relief as he lifted a microwave out of the truck. “Kitchen!” he said, and started to make his way there. “Oh no, that actually goes in the bedroom,” I deadpanned, just to make him laugh. But his face was so piteous when he thought he’d made a mistake that I had to pat him on the arm and apologize for kidding around.
Anyway, the worst is over, I think (although I always remember that King Lear quote when I say that---“the worst is not / so long as we can say ‘this is the worst’”---and wish I hadn’t said it) and the next thing we have to face is the tiny sliver of packing up we still have to do ourselves at the old house. By “tiny sliver,” I actually mean “most of the kitchen,” but what’s a few hundred wineglasses and casserole pans when you’ve packed up the bulk of your life already, you know? This weekend will be devoted to cleaning and patching up the old place and painting our lovely chocolate and charcoal walls back to dull apartment rental white, and then we’ve got Monday and Tuesday evenings to get some semblance of order at the new place before leaving for Barbados on Wednesday.
Because that’s the thing I keep forgetting to tell you! We’re going to Barbados! It’s kind of a poorly timed vacation—or maybe a brilliantly timed one, depending on how you look at it---but we booked it ages ago when I realized this hotel gift certificate I’d won in an auction at work was about to expire. Of course, right now I have no idea which of the three zillion boxes my bikinis and sundresses are in—or, indeed, if I have even seen them since our return from the honeymoon in September---but that doesn’t matter because this time next week, I will be lying idly on a beach. I can hardly believe it. I mean “Man, I could really use a vacation in Barbados!” is something you always say after moving, right? You never actually expect it to happen.