The Five Worst Things About Moving

I moved this past weekend. Thankfully, it wasn’t too dramatic: I went from one unit to another within the same building, so I didn’t have to pack everything into a van. Instead, I just loaded things onto a cart and made plenty of trips in the elevator. But there is no such thing as an enjoyable moving experience, and I’m writing to vent about the worst parts, for the sake of healing my wounded soul. 

1. My lower back, calves, and feet hurt — a lot. After bending over so many times and lifting dozens of heavy boxes, I desperately need a chiropractor. On Saturday and Sunday, I basically woke up, started moving things, and didn’t stop until it was time to pass out in bed; only once I was lying down did I realize how intensely my feet and calves were aching. I don’t have one of those nifty step-counting bracelets or rings, but I’m fairly confident in estimating that I walked an entire marathon each day while making trips between the two apartments. I am currently wearing long, unsexy compression socks because it feels as though my calves are detaching from the shins like fall-off-the-bone barbecue. I’m tempted to find one of those cheap and slightly dodgy Asian foot massage places, but I’m discouraged because I would have to walk there.
2.  I’m a tidy person. But, the day I moved, a dust storm must have swept through my apartment and only my apartment. I’m absolutely sure of it because I have not stopped sneezing for the past 48 hours. I had to take out my contacts and resort to my ill-fitting glasses because my eyes were watering ceaselessly. The visible stream of dust-induced tears would have prompted someone who saw me to believe that I was suffering through a recent romantic break up. No amount of showering has improved my condition, and I may soon become the first person to overdose on over-the-counter allergy pills; please send an ambulance with a skilled medical team to my new unit immediately.
3.  I kept coming across gifts, hand-me-downs, and family antiques that I don’t particularly like and don’t have any good use for — but I would feel really bad getting rid of these things, largely because of who gave me the objects. The best example I can provide is these ragged dolls that were given to me ages ago by an extended family member. (I don’t have any female cousins on either side of the family, which means any and all family jewelry — along with girly things like dolls and purses — are necessarily given to me without deliberation.) Although I must have some hereditary obligation to keep these dolls, I am tempted to throw them down the trash chute because they are extremely unsettling and would be suitable props for a horror movie. One doll in particular is a massive plastic baby, manufactured decades ago, that has counterweighted eyelids which are supposed to open and close as you tilt the doll so that it seems like it is sleeping. But because the doll is so old, the eyelids don’t function properly, so the plastic demon is constantly glaring at its victim with one eye half open. I want to shove it under the bed for an out-of-sight-out-of-mind resolution, yet that would be the perfect place for it to spawn and kill me. I believe that Western civilization depends on me ceremoniously sacrificing these dolls into a volcano . . . but what would I say if that familial benefactor ever asks what I’ve done with them?
4.  Standing in the new unit, where there are boxes everywhere and nothing is organized, is overwhelming. It requires deep contemplation to mentally conceptualize where everything should go now. I have to run through scenarios in my head, wondering where I would really want the dishtowels to be located when I’m cooking pasta. Should the drinking glasses go on the left or the right side of the cabinet? Which books should go on which shelves? How high on the wall should a particular painting go? Should the painting actually go in another room? Although no decisions must be final, there is this crushing feeling that every choice is extremely consequential. And boxes are like Hydra heads: The moment you finish unpacking one, two more appear.
5. When everything has been relocated to the new space, there’s a pleasant sense of relief and accomplishment. But staring at the empty version of your former home is. . . devastating. I took a moment to appreciate all the things I loved about my “old” unit: I spent many afternoons on the balcony attempting to achieve a tan (accompanied by a homemade margarita), and I always loved the stunning view from my desk. As I stood in the empty rooms, I reflected on the many wonderful memories I have from that place. I can easily reimagine the dinner parties hosted around the table and the long, rich conversations I had with a boyfriend on the couch. It is hard to close a book that you enjoyed reading.

Honestly, the list of burdens from moving is endless, so this article could be, too. You sometimes need someone with an engineering degree to figure out how to fit a big thing through a small door, and movers never seem to have working clocks. When I woke up at 3 a.m. during my first night sleeping in the new place, I panicked and assumed I had been abducted. 

There were, to be fair, a few positive parts of the moving experience. I’m dreadfully tiny, so I couldn’t actually lift any of my own furniture, which means I had to recruit male friends for help. (I bribed them with dinner for their services.) It was nice to see these guys again. Even better, we pigged out on wings, deep dish pizza, and greasy onion rings. (I love cooking, but with the chaos of moving, I wasn’t organized enough to make anyone a decent dinner, so I resorted to an overpriced delivery service.) There’s just something inordinately satisfying about unhealthy take out after a long day of physical labor; no crippling guilty emerged when I stared down at oily fingers because I felt as though I had earned the indulgence. And, as scientists have repeatedly proven in sophisticated studies, pizza tastes better in the company of friends. It also tastes good cold, a day later.