My body feels like it has been thrown off a cliff – a cliff with sharp pointy rocks at the bottom. I have been popping Ibuprophan pills like they were M&Ms.
As with most home remodeling and other projects I choose to take on, my visualization of how relatively easy a project is going to be, versus how arduous the project actually turns out, are woefully out of sync. Add to this list the ease at which I thought our move to our new house would go down. I confess that, strictly for survival purposes, getting my spa moved and operational was of the highest priority.
I notice now that moving to a new home involves a remarkable amount of bending over. I didn’t recognize that this would be as much of an issue as the last time I moved… which was 19 years ago. Back then my 40 year old body was clearly up for the challenge.
However moving 19 years of accumulated crap seems to be the least of my problems – it’s FINDING the damn needed items after moving that is causing us the most grief. Nancy had the great idea of marking the outside of the boxes with their contents. All well and good except that she would empty, then re-use, each of the boxes on successive trips. As a result, the boxes rarely contain what is written on the outside. We have created a perpetual state of confusion. We can’t find our stuff!
The other day, after emerging from the shower, my hair brush was no place to be found. I ended up attempting to comb my hair with a back-scratcher. My coiffure didn’t look too hot, though I must admit it did seem to provide some relief for my scalp itch. “Adapt, improvise, overcome” as they say in the Army. Nancy has suffered equally; after her vain attempt to locate the iron, I suggested she place the clothing items needing pressing between two pieces of cardboard then run over it with the car. Apparently my solutions are much “too creative” for her sensibilities.
Nancy did come up with a winning strategy though: maintain garbage service at both our old and new houses while we execute our move. This has been remarkably effective in streamlining our operation. Stuff which we have held on to for a couple of decades because we “might” have a use for it has not survived the gauntlet of TWO garbage cans. I call that progress. Although Nancy has retained veto power over the trash; she frequently retrieves stuff out of the can which I, clearly errantly, have discarded.
Still, it seems as though items spontaneously regenerate in the closets and from under the bed each time we remove and box them. The situation is much like those trick birthday candles, perpetually relighting each time they are blown out. No matter how much stuff we move, there seems to be another box full somewhere in the house.
We finally contacted a professional mover; they were totally delighted when they came to assess all they would be moving: a sofa, queen size bed, and a few odd chairs. This is the remaining stuff that is either too bulky or too heavy for a couple of 61 year olds to attempt to wrangle. The art work, on the other hand, will be carefully ported in individual car trips by Nancy. With these special items she trusts NO ONE!
Our idea in this move was that this would be yet another “transitional” move until we find our true “dream house”, a Mid-Century Mondern. But as groupings of skeletomuscular parts of my anatomy I didn’t even know I had torture me from my sleep at night, I find I could easily justify this house being my final “dream home”; resolving comfortably to be ported, feet-first, to my next and final place of repose.