(programming note: after the last post, we decided to move that (last) weekend. This part is from Sunday, in the midst of and after actually hauling crap to the apartment.)
As I was starting to load the truck for trip one, it rained. It only lasted for five minutes...just enough for nature to say, "If I feel the need, if it appears things are going too smoothly, I can make your life incrementally more difficult."
Moving makes me feel...not nostalgic, not sad, but simply old. I feel the move in my body in a very tangible and visceral way. Every trip up those stairs adds on a couple of years. My hips radiate pain, even after gobbling Aleve. This is especially traumatic, as I never have hip pain. I sincerely hope this is not another chronic condition emerging.
As the day progresses, the rooms fill up and get increasingly junky. Boxes upon boxes, furniture quickly stacked in blithe disregard for living arrangement, Hefty bags of clothes, papers, and various flotsam mound up in a multitude of locations. In random corners of the apartment, empty and half-filled sports drink bottles gather in an effort to enhance the general ambiance.
Finally, the last helper leaves. I return the rental truck and pick up my car...which now feels low, small, inconsequential by comparison. I have but hours to assemble at least part of the apartment into something liveable. If only I can find those damn allen wrenches and other tools. Now (in what will be my refrain for the next week or so), in which box did I pack them?