No Pain, No Gain. And I'm Fine With That.
I am not what one would refer to as "in shape."
I sport a decent beer belly, two small chins, and do not partake in exercise in the physical sense. If I was a super villian, I would be the Evil Genius, and not the Evil Strong Guy.
So it stands to reason that after a day or two of relatively constant manual labor, I would be in pain.
This was the case.
Last Friday, we began moving into another apartment. We had a two bedroom, and are upgrading our living space to a two bedroom with den model. All the same dimensions as the other apartment for the most part, with the luxury of an extra room for my Real Dolls and random toy collection. The ceiling is also kind of diagonal, and has a ceiling fan. Lastly, a fireplace adorns on of our walls. Great for a nice, quiet cuddle and the burning of suspicious documents.
Let me say this right off. Well, almost right off. Just a little ways in, is more accurate. I hate moving. Hate. I have moved more than any human should be made to move. Since 1995, I have lived in: A dorm, a hotel room for a month (long story), an apartment, a townhouse, a one bedroom apartment type place in Ocean City, another apartment, a house, my parent's house, another apartment, another apartment, another apartment, then Nichole's apartment, and now a new apartment.
"But Matt," you say with fear in your heart to even speak my proper name in such a familiar fashion, "why do you move so often if you hate moving?"
That's a valid question, and it is one for which I do not have a satisfactory answer. It is essentially a situational predicament. For instance, the one between the first Another Apartment and A House was because one of my roommates was moving out, so myself and a friend moved into the house.
You get the point. I hate moving.
So I moved again. This time, though, we not only upgraded apartments, but also upgraded floors! We went from the second floor to the third. Remember how I hate moving? I hate moving up even more than just moving.
Our first moving day was last Friday. I mentioned that earlier, but there are times when I have a tendency to get off track, so I wanted to re-establish myself for your benefit. Most people work on fridays, which meant we had no help moving. On top of that, Nichole's daughter Kelsey was with us for the weekend. On top of that, Nichole agreed to babysit her friend's daughter. On top of that, we had her two sisters over to be babysat for a couple hours also. So we are moving amidst kids playing, fighting, playing again, and being hungry and thirsty at separate times.
I borrowed a hand-truck from my Dad, but found out it wasn't going to work after the first two boxes. It worked properly, but was such a pain in the ass I decided to nix the idea. It was easier taking boxes one at a time. So I started loading up the car. One box at a time. It was very hot out.
After going up 8 steps and down 8 steps to the car, I did that again roughly 13 times. Then, we drove the car about 100-150 feet or so and parked in front of our new apartment building. We then carried each box up 32 steps to our new place. When the car was empty, this happened two more times. Finally, we made a last trip of every drawer we had in the house in order to make the next day's carrying of furniture a little easier. Our main move was to be the next day, but we wanted to clear the way so the furniture was easier to get out.
After the first carload, I was drenched in sweat. After the second, I had to borrow some sweat from one of our new neighbors because I ran out. I think she gave me her bulldog's sweat, though, because that is kind of how I ended up smelling. Lucky for us, the electricity never turned off, it just switched over to the apartment complex's account, so we had A/C the whole time. I cranked that sucker on down to 60 degrees for the move. It was heaven on earth. I also drank a whole lot of Gatorade.
We did catch a bit of a break that night. There was a pool party held by the apartment people for residents, and after 5pm it was No Kids Allowed. My parents were nice enough to watch Nichole's daughter for a bit so we could relax, then later her cousin was able to watch her daughter so we could relax more and not feel bad about playing beer pong then go swimming at 11:30pm.
The next day was easier, albeit still a complete and utter pain in my ass. We were able to recruit about 6 guys to help us move, so with all of them and my more than impressive lifting power we were able to knock out all the furniture moving in about 2 and a half hours. Not bad. Still, all this furniture went up 3 flights. All in all, if you hadn't already done the math, it was 48 stairs. I did the math during the move, and had to stop myself from counting the stairs as I climbed up them. I felt like Charlie Babbitt. Definitely 48.
That Sunday was my birthday party, so I got a day off. My arms weren't hurting that much, surprisingly, but my legs were killing me. I literally limped out of bed to the bathroom that morning. My thighs were sore and calves were ensconced in pain. I seriously considered massaging them with Bengay, until I realized I didn't feel like massaging them with Bengay.
I had a 30th birthday party that day. I just told you that, if you'll recall. While I received several very nice gifts, including a bunch of fly-fishing stuff from my parents (I'm going fly fishing at a ranch in New Mexico in about 2 weeks or so), the best gift came from my friend Joe, whom I 've known since I was about 3 years old or so. He got me an old school original Nintendo Entertainment System. More on that another time.
Finally we come to my actual birthday, on Monday. I spent this day doing the same thing I did on Friday and Saturday. Moving the rest of our junk. Most of it was random crap, and much consisted of Kelsey's toys. It's hard to believe how many toys one kid can accumulate over only a few years. Then again, look at me.
Nichole spent her time cleaning the old apartment that day, a job I definitely did not want, so I was the sole mover. I thought the first day was bad. I was struggling to carry a bin full of stuffed animals up to the new place. Again, the Gatorade was flowing freely. I am glad to be quitting smoking now, let me tell you.
Nichole and I have decided to begin saving some money from each paycheck and putting it into an envelope for the next time we move. The reason for this is to hire fucking movers. Sorry for the expletive but I am so tired of moving I don't even want to think about having to do it again. The next move is into a house, and that's it. Probably until retirement.
Then again, all this moving does help me sculpt my already impressive set of guns.
I sport a decent beer belly, two small chins, and do not partake in exercise in the physical sense. If I was a super villian, I would be the Evil Genius, and not the Evil Strong Guy.
So it stands to reason that after a day or two of relatively constant manual labor, I would be in pain.
This was the case.
Last Friday, we began moving into another apartment. We had a two bedroom, and are upgrading our living space to a two bedroom with den model. All the same dimensions as the other apartment for the most part, with the luxury of an extra room for my Real Dolls and random toy collection. The ceiling is also kind of diagonal, and has a ceiling fan. Lastly, a fireplace adorns on of our walls. Great for a nice, quiet cuddle and the burning of suspicious documents.
Let me say this right off. Well, almost right off. Just a little ways in, is more accurate. I hate moving. Hate. I have moved more than any human should be made to move. Since 1995, I have lived in: A dorm, a hotel room for a month (long story), an apartment, a townhouse, a one bedroom apartment type place in Ocean City, another apartment, a house, my parent's house, another apartment, another apartment, another apartment, then Nichole's apartment, and now a new apartment.
"But Matt," you say with fear in your heart to even speak my proper name in such a familiar fashion, "why do you move so often if you hate moving?"
That's a valid question, and it is one for which I do not have a satisfactory answer. It is essentially a situational predicament. For instance, the one between the first Another Apartment and A House was because one of my roommates was moving out, so myself and a friend moved into the house.
You get the point. I hate moving.
So I moved again. This time, though, we not only upgraded apartments, but also upgraded floors! We went from the second floor to the third. Remember how I hate moving? I hate moving up even more than just moving.
Our first moving day was last Friday. I mentioned that earlier, but there are times when I have a tendency to get off track, so I wanted to re-establish myself for your benefit. Most people work on fridays, which meant we had no help moving. On top of that, Nichole's daughter Kelsey was with us for the weekend. On top of that, Nichole agreed to babysit her friend's daughter. On top of that, we had her two sisters over to be babysat for a couple hours also. So we are moving amidst kids playing, fighting, playing again, and being hungry and thirsty at separate times.
I borrowed a hand-truck from my Dad, but found out it wasn't going to work after the first two boxes. It worked properly, but was such a pain in the ass I decided to nix the idea. It was easier taking boxes one at a time. So I started loading up the car. One box at a time. It was very hot out.
After going up 8 steps and down 8 steps to the car, I did that again roughly 13 times. Then, we drove the car about 100-150 feet or so and parked in front of our new apartment building. We then carried each box up 32 steps to our new place. When the car was empty, this happened two more times. Finally, we made a last trip of every drawer we had in the house in order to make the next day's carrying of furniture a little easier. Our main move was to be the next day, but we wanted to clear the way so the furniture was easier to get out.
After the first carload, I was drenched in sweat. After the second, I had to borrow some sweat from one of our new neighbors because I ran out. I think she gave me her bulldog's sweat, though, because that is kind of how I ended up smelling. Lucky for us, the electricity never turned off, it just switched over to the apartment complex's account, so we had A/C the whole time. I cranked that sucker on down to 60 degrees for the move. It was heaven on earth. I also drank a whole lot of Gatorade.
We did catch a bit of a break that night. There was a pool party held by the apartment people for residents, and after 5pm it was No Kids Allowed. My parents were nice enough to watch Nichole's daughter for a bit so we could relax, then later her cousin was able to watch her daughter so we could relax more and not feel bad about playing beer pong then go swimming at 11:30pm.
The next day was easier, albeit still a complete and utter pain in my ass. We were able to recruit about 6 guys to help us move, so with all of them and my more than impressive lifting power we were able to knock out all the furniture moving in about 2 and a half hours. Not bad. Still, all this furniture went up 3 flights. All in all, if you hadn't already done the math, it was 48 stairs. I did the math during the move, and had to stop myself from counting the stairs as I climbed up them. I felt like Charlie Babbitt. Definitely 48.
That Sunday was my birthday party, so I got a day off. My arms weren't hurting that much, surprisingly, but my legs were killing me. I literally limped out of bed to the bathroom that morning. My thighs were sore and calves were ensconced in pain. I seriously considered massaging them with Bengay, until I realized I didn't feel like massaging them with Bengay.
I had a 30th birthday party that day. I just told you that, if you'll recall. While I received several very nice gifts, including a bunch of fly-fishing stuff from my parents (I'm going fly fishing at a ranch in New Mexico in about 2 weeks or so), the best gift came from my friend Joe, whom I 've known since I was about 3 years old or so. He got me an old school original Nintendo Entertainment System. More on that another time.
Finally we come to my actual birthday, on Monday. I spent this day doing the same thing I did on Friday and Saturday. Moving the rest of our junk. Most of it was random crap, and much consisted of Kelsey's toys. It's hard to believe how many toys one kid can accumulate over only a few years. Then again, look at me.
Nichole spent her time cleaning the old apartment that day, a job I definitely did not want, so I was the sole mover. I thought the first day was bad. I was struggling to carry a bin full of stuffed animals up to the new place. Again, the Gatorade was flowing freely. I am glad to be quitting smoking now, let me tell you.
Nichole and I have decided to begin saving some money from each paycheck and putting it into an envelope for the next time we move. The reason for this is to hire fucking movers. Sorry for the expletive but I am so tired of moving I don't even want to think about having to do it again. The next move is into a house, and that's it. Probably until retirement.
Then again, all this moving does help me sculpt my already impressive set of guns.
Comments