Moving Day

Moving Day

I could almost hear Alanis Morissette singing, "A broken elevator...on your moving day..."

Isn't it ironic?  Don'tcha think?  (Actually, no.  It's an inconvenient coincidence, or perhaps the result of an elevator built in 1927 trying to haul my friend, Potsch, myself and a solid wood wardrobe down four stories.  But it isn't very ironic.)

In any case, it sucked.  Moving is hard enough without running one hundred armloads of boxes down four flights of stairs.  Where did we get all this stuff?  Oh, right.  Craigslist and Ikea.  And the Craigslist stuff was undoubtedly previously purchased at Ikea.  Hey, we don't have a lot of money and we like faux birch wood.  What else is an LA couple gonna do?

Apparently, our now-former neighbors have the same aesthetic taste as we found them rooting through our stuff when we came down the stairs.  Actually, another tenant saw them first and alerted Erika thusly, "Hey, some Mexicans are going through your shit."  Ah, I'll miss the old hood. 

It's funny how moving day always goes.  There are five discernible stages.  (1) Unrealistic Optimism.  This is during the morning.  You're proud of yourself because you rented the U-haul, your friend showed up to help, you're sipping coffee, laughing, saying foolish things like, "I figure four hours - max."  You are generally wasting precious time you will desperately need later. (2) Focused Work.   This is during the afternoon.  You're quiet, diligent, communicating through short phrases like, "Turn left," "Lift," and "One, two, three, up!"  You are sweating, but it feels good.  You say things to your beloved like, "Baby, you need any help?" Or, "We work well together, don't we?"  (3) Oh, Shit.  This is late afternoon, just after the first disaster has struck.  In our case, the elevator broke.  It could be any number of problems such as a friend not showing up, the rental truck breaking down, or an injury.  The incident will always occur at the exact moment you realize you are going to run out of time.  It's 4pm and you haven't even emptied half of your apartment.  The truck is due back by seven and you haven't eaten in six hours.  You share the moment with your beloved by saying things like, "We're fucked," "What are you doing right now?" or "How the hell is it already four o'clock?" (4) Frenzied Panic.  It's dark outside.  The wheels have come off.  No more neat stacking.  Random shit is being thrown into Trader Joe's bags.  Tampons next to TV remotes.  Jar of capers on top of the toilet scrubber.  You can't sweat anymore because you are too dehydrated.  You scream at your beloved, "I told you we needed more boxes!" "This is a fucking disaster!" Or, "Leave the mayonnaise!  We'll get more!"  (5) Exhaustion.  Nighttime.  The truck has been returned with two minutes to spare.  You are sitting in the one spot of your new place that isn't covered in boxes.  Your body finally understands it can relax.  You want to eat, but you don't have the energy to forage for the food box.  You want to drink, but you can't find the wine opener.  You want to bathe, but you...just...can't.  You mumble something to your beloved like, "I love you, baby." 

I think my favorite part of the move was around 9pm when I collapsed my exhausted body into the cab of the U-haul for the final run to the new apartment only to find the battery had died.  We had been double-parked with the hazards on for the better part of two hours.  Oh, I get it.  We moved on April 1st.  Good one.  Fortunately, a very generous Hispanic guy from our building was standing there and gave me a jump.  I wanted to hug him.  I did.  He let go first.    

At the end of the day (read: night), we got it done.  Now comes the real work, turning a mountain of boxes, sacks and furniture into a home.  Hmm.  I think I'll start by setting up the Ikea bookcase next to the Ikea desk.  It will look perfect across from the Ikea couch which sits in front of the Ikea coffee table (that matches the Ikea TV stand).