Since I have never given birth, I can only speculate on this, but I frequently hear others say that you quickly forget the pain as soon as the child is placed in your arms. I have moved three times in the last five years, but only this week’s move was voluntary. The last move was only six months ago. Truthfully, I can’t believe I did this to myself. (Is that what women say during labor the second time around?) How could I forget such pain? I thought things through, trying to draw on my previous moving experiences, trying to predict where problems could arise, but people are unpredictable, so there is no way to cover every situation.
Moving day was Wednesday – that’s when all the big furniture was hauled over. At 4:00 in the morning on Thursday, I was doing laundry. Was I an industrious early riser? No, I had been doing laundry all night. But let’s back up a bit. Let me set the tone for the entire experience. It happened early on.
Some of the movers (all friends and relatives) showed up Wednesday morning. They started in with the large items while I took care of some smaller things. A few minutes later, one of my nephews stopped by to join in. While they were outside, I went to the kitchen to sort through objects on the counter. My nephew walked in, came up from behind, and with a hearty hello, patted me on the back. Doesn’t sound so bad? It sounds as if I have a helpful, loving nephew, doesn’t it? The fact is, I do, but he was already contaminated with moving germs. Moving vans have germs and furniture legs have germs; germs abound.
My dear, dear, well-intentioned nephew set in motion the series of events that ended with me crawling into bed at 5:30 a.m. The rest of the day I was paranoid about my dirty shirt, and whether or not my hair had been touched. The seat of my car was contaminated by the back of my shirt. (Why didn’t I think to put a towel over it?)
The last two moves, I have used a fitted sheet to protect my garment rack, and it worked quite well. (The first time one of the movers said it looked like a giant covered birdcage.) This time, I was not so lucky. When I found it in the new house, the sheet was all askew, and the entire rack was going to have to be cleaned. This was not an easy task. The rack is made of metal, and has a shelf on top in a grid pattern. Spraying the grid was bad enough, but trying to wipe down something at head-level, even worse.
Those familiar with my previous moving stories will be glad to know that the wrapping of my bookcases went more smoothly. I still had to prop them against my mattress and make dozens of rotations around them (my major workout for the day), but they did not fall on the floor or on me, and that’s a bonus. I wondered if I should use a fitted sheet over them as I did for my garment rack, but after what happened to it, I think I made the correct decision.
More good news – I did not sleep on a beach towel! I did think about it, though. I pulled my third load of laundry out of the dryer at 4:00 a.m. as mentioned above, which included my bedspread. Being rectangular, it can go on my bed in only one direction. I was so exhausted, I knew not what I was doing, and I threw it on the wrong way. I was extremely upset. Should I just call it tradition and sleep on the beach towel? After some careful thought, I decided that I could sleep under my sheet alone, and rewash the bedspread the next day.
In conclusion, I pulled my clothes hangers out of the dishwasher (a great way to sanitize), and hung up the essential garments. I then spent the better part of an hour de-germing in a super-shower, and there I was in bed at 5:30 as the dawn light was starting to come through the blinds. And I was up two hours later to get ready for the cable guy.
If I ever consider moving again, someone knock some sense into me, please.