Moving Days

I.
HATE.
MOVING.
If hanging out with TnT, Stein and Marge = Best Day Ever.
Than hanging load after load of stuff all over my arms, and lugging it out of one place and into another = Worst Day Ever.

I hated moving into my apartment on Carson Street. And moving out of it.

I hated moving to South Bend. And then moving out.

I hated lugging a summer's worth of stuff to my Renaissance Room in Lincoln Square for my internship in Chicago midway through MBA school. And then lugging it out.

I hated moving into my little apartment in Naperville, especially because of the strained back consequences I suffered for a week.

And I knew I was going to hate this past weekend - three days dedicated to moving. Alone. Again. And not just any kind of moving - moving AND merging. That is the toughest kind of move of all. See, moving stuff into a space that is free and clear, is one thing. Moving stuff and merging it - finding a balance between space dedicated to the love of beer, fish, t-shirts, and tools, and a space dedicated to clothes, shoes, cooking and art is quite another. August 26 through 28, were to be doomsdays.

Until I realized something. That moving was nothing more than a communication challenge. I thought about moving when I was younger, and it was great. No sweat. Why? Because I didn't do much of it. The help just swooped in from all directions. My Dad and brother would do the heavy lifting, my mom would help with the organization, my sister would be there to take me out to dinner in our new neighborhood, and my girlfriends would be there to house warm the place. The reason moving has been so awful the past four or five times around, is because I've mostly done it by myself.

So as I've learned at work, the better thing to do than silently suffer when you are swamped, is to ask for help. To open your mouth and communicate. And not so surprisingly, most always there is someone there to pick up the pieces.

This move, I asked. And the help came. Two little angels flew in, and although their combined age was only slightly less than their combined weight, from Friday through Saturday evening, they moved overpriced art book by overpriced art book, pot by pan, hanger by hanger, art supply by art supply from my side of the tracks to Peter's, while I purged and merged.

And when Peter, who had been out of town, got home on Sunday, I asked again. And even with a little too much Chicago Q churning inside of him, he and the monster truck did the heavy lifting.

Despite the hours and days that I put into it, I had a great time. And when things got a little rough - when moving started to become the dreaded task that I anticipated, I took breaks:
To play with my stuff a little bit. How lovely.

To cheer on my cousin who dominated the Naperville Central football game and to bond with the vagrant Naperville teens that so often annoy me.

To have a drink with Claire and Trent.
To make spaghetti and meatballs for the heavy lifter.
And to sit back and take in the fruits of my labor. 

In the end, I got to a good place - a place with a cute little writing corner - a place that I will call my new home - and a place where I will once again have a roommate.

And to all those Catholic girls out there - it might make a really stressful week before your wedding, but in the end, I think it was worth it.

Lo.