One of the most singularly awful human experiences is to move out of a living space. I don’t mind moving in so much because it can be accomplished with only a handful of personal items and a broad definition of “fixer upper.”
But moving out is another animal entirely — every piece of clothing, every last paper clip must be out of your living space.
Luckily, I haven’t had to move out myself for a while — and probably won’t in the near future — but I recently experienced a few mini move outs.
I bought a new TV several weeks ago to replace my old giant projection set. This set was from the era when you could climb inside and be reasonably safe during an earthquake. My dad and I easily got the new flat screen in the basement, but there was no way we were going to maneuver the yacht of a TV up a small flight of stairs, around a sharp turn, up a longer flight of stairs and then out into the garage.
So I did what any self-respecting American would do. I paid someone else to do it. Two guys came and took it away. No problems whatsoever.
My second moving experience — helping coworker Katelyn move out of her old apartment — was slightly more snafu-ridden.
Everything was going smoothly until it came time to move the couch. It was not an exceptionally large couch, but the logistics of moving it out the door, making a sharp turn, taking it down a set of stairs, another sharp turn and down another flight of stairs were something that, if you ask me, should have been left to someone with a degree in civil engi- neering.
Fellow coworker Jay and I managed to take the feet off the couch and discerned we had to take the door off the hinges to make the first turn. Door unhinged, Jay picked up his end of the couch. I picked up my end, only to drop it and unleash a loud and particularly filthy string of words. Unbeknownst to me, a staple was sticking out of the bottom and gave my hand a clean incision.
Somehow Jay also managed to get stabbed by the same staple before we got the couch out the door.
Huffing and sweating, blood brothers Jay and I got the couch down the first set of stairs, turned it and got it firmly lodged in the second set.
I got a better grip on the increasingly frustrating piece of furniture, and we started to move it when I let out my second, substantially louder, chorus of profanities. In the midst of our finagling, we had sandwiched my pointer finger between the wall and the couch.
Finger black and blue and pulsating, temper ignited, I gave the infernal thing one more shove, sending it down the stairs and into Jay’s neck, and causing a few choice words to spring forth from his mouth as well.
The couch was finally on the lawn, but in its wake was a path of destruction I could confidently call a federal disaster area.
From this set of moving experiences, I gained a greater appreciation of people who choose to make hauling heavy pieces of furniture their profession. They may not always be the most pleasant smelling and may let slip a curse here and there — one can sympathize — but they may be worth the price. And avoid you some medical bills.
Land of Lincoln Square 