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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2qZL4EC:seramarias replied to your post “We have put so much stuff into this pod, guys. So much. It’s 93 out….”
I once worked a three-person move out of (known to be temporary) rented housing, so furniture wasn’t even an issue, but I was the only able-bodied person in that group, and I was literally crying with exhaustion by the time we left.
oh that sounds awful.
I moved alone into my first apartment with Z, and then the two of us moved alone from Jersey City to Westchester, without taking time off work to do it. We moved out of a second floor walk-up no elevators into a second-floor walkup no elevators, and in both cases had no off-street parking either, so sometimes we were hauling furniture down the street to wherever godforsaken place we’d left the car. And we would come home from work (I had to commute across the George Washington Bridge at rush hour), and eat dinner, and then load the car until we collapsed, and then sleep, then go to work and work a full day– and sometimes, on lunch, I’d go unload my car, but then after work Dude would come with his car and we’d get the heavy stuff– carrying it for a block or more sometimes, then up two flights of stairs to get to the building, then up two flights of stairs in the building, then eat something for dinner and drive back across the bridge and load the car up again that night or the next morning before work—
by day 3 I was covered in bruises, I took a photo somewhere of my blackened thighs (but it was like, 2002 or 3 or so, so I couldn’t tell you what hard drive it’s on). It took us the whole week. We forgot how to speak. This was my first week at a new job, I was trying to impress them, I had bloody hands and black circles under my eyes and I was covered in bruises. And I was broke, flat broke, because of course I hadn’t been paid yet at the new job but I needed first and last month rent as a deposit, and it was just– exhausting.
Exhausting.
But I was 22, and it was my first grown-up apartment out of college, and this was my Dude, so. We had almost no furniture– two double beds, a kitchen table, some folding chairs, a couple sets of shelves, and a giant ugly couch was about the long and short of it (no TV, no good living room furniture, etc.).
I learned then that I was stronger than Dude, but he had a lot more reach. So for the couch, I sat down on the lowest step of the stairs and put the couch on my back and lifted it, and he guided the front legs out of the way so they wouldn’t get caught. Ditto for the small fridge, and the table.
When we moved out of Westchester, Farmsister came down and helped with our dad, and they worked their butts off, and we drove a giant Uhaul to Buffalo and never looked back.
(We had to move into our current house alone, but it was all of a quarter-mile from the place where we’d been keeping our stuff, and there weren’t stairs, so. It sucked but it wasn’t hell.)
Big Sis is sitting here now and admits she’s had the Army’s help for all her major moves. Including people to pack for her. Which sounds nice.
I once worked a three-person move out of (known to be temporary) rented housing, so furniture wasn’t even an issue, but I was the only able-bodied person in that group, and I was literally crying with exhaustion by the time we left.
oh that sounds awful.
I moved alone into my first apartment with Z, and then the two of us moved alone from Jersey City to Westchester, without taking time off work to do it. We moved out of a second floor walk-up no elevators into a second-floor walkup no elevators, and in both cases had no off-street parking either, so sometimes we were hauling furniture down the street to wherever godforsaken place we’d left the car. And we would come home from work (I had to commute across the George Washington Bridge at rush hour), and eat dinner, and then load the car until we collapsed, and then sleep, then go to work and work a full day– and sometimes, on lunch, I’d go unload my car, but then after work Dude would come with his car and we’d get the heavy stuff– carrying it for a block or more sometimes, then up two flights of stairs to get to the building, then up two flights of stairs in the building, then eat something for dinner and drive back across the bridge and load the car up again that night or the next morning before work—
by day 3 I was covered in bruises, I took a photo somewhere of my blackened thighs (but it was like, 2002 or 3 or so, so I couldn’t tell you what hard drive it’s on). It took us the whole week. We forgot how to speak. This was my first week at a new job, I was trying to impress them, I had bloody hands and black circles under my eyes and I was covered in bruises. And I was broke, flat broke, because of course I hadn’t been paid yet at the new job but I needed first and last month rent as a deposit, and it was just– exhausting.
Exhausting.
But I was 22, and it was my first grown-up apartment out of college, and this was my Dude, so. We had almost no furniture– two double beds, a kitchen table, some folding chairs, a couple sets of shelves, and a giant ugly couch was about the long and short of it (no TV, no good living room furniture, etc.).
I learned then that I was stronger than Dude, but he had a lot more reach. So for the couch, I sat down on the lowest step of the stairs and put the couch on my back and lifted it, and he guided the front legs out of the way so they wouldn’t get caught. Ditto for the small fridge, and the table.
When we moved out of Westchester, Farmsister came down and helped with our dad, and they worked their butts off, and we drove a giant Uhaul to Buffalo and never looked back.
(We had to move into our current house alone, but it was all of a quarter-mile from the place where we’d been keeping our stuff, and there weren’t stairs, so. It sucked but it wasn’t hell.)
Big Sis is sitting here now and admits she’s had the Army’s help for all her major moves. Including people to pack for her. Which sounds nice.
