During the last five years, I have lived in five different places: the typical tale of a twenty-something. After completing another move mere days ago, here is my slightly generalized account of my thoughts along the way:

Pre-Move

We’re hiring movers. I don’t care what it costs.
Just kidding, that costs a whole month’s rent.
I’m going to start packing right now so it will be out of the way.
I hate this.
At least Rihanna came out with a new song…
(Singing in a Rihanna voice): B$#%& BETTA HAVE MY MONEY!
(Singing in a burly man’s voice): b$#%& betta have my money!
Ok! Two boxes down! This isn’t so bad.
…but I can’t pack anything in the kitchen until the day of because I need all of it…
…and I can’t pack up the bed or bedding or anything…
…and I still need to leave some clothes out…
&@#$.
I hate this.

The Move

Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…
Ok, stay positive. It really won’t be that bad.
Where’s the coffee?
Oh god, here come the parents.
I should have made more burly man friends.
(… ♫ b$#%& betta have my money ♫ …)
FOCUS, MICHAEL!
Wow this actually is going fine so far…
We are KILLING it! Let’s move this giant dresser! I’M READY!!!
Ok 1…2…3!
…wait this is so heavy…I need two seconds…
(#horrificallyembarrassed. I’m going to the gym every day for the rest of my life).
Ok…(panting)…let’s try again.
(literally can’t even lift it).
One of the other moving recruits replaces me.
I go get something lighter that really shouldn’t be put in the truck until later, but no one calls me out on it. They’re all embarrassed for me, too.
(First) truck is loaded.
“WOO! That was great! Anyone want to stop for breakfast? …no?”
No response.
We arrive at the new abode.
“Guys I’m so excited to see what the new furniture will look like!”
“Wait, I thought we were on the second floor…”
&@#$.
We take approximately a thousand trips up and down *three floors worth of stairs with various objects (and I’m no longer exempt from the heavy things).
My back starts aching from lifting all of my belongings incorrectly.
My legs start cramping from the six flights stairs.
I’m really serious about that going-to-the-gym-every-day-forever thing.
We go back to the truck, and the process repeats, with still no food, even sorer muscles, and on-and-off rain.

Post-Move

“My calves feel like they’re full of blood.”
I attempt to get out of bed, but realize I’m basically paralyzed from all of the improper lifting.
I decide that I’m never doing any physical activity again. Especially going to the gym.
Maybe I don’t have to get out of bed…I mean, it is all finally over…
“Michael! Are you up yet? We still have to unpack! Get up!”
It’s usually then—the day after—that I realize: moving is like all of the other atypical, unpleasant events in my life that I don’t want to participate in, but am required to with a clown-sized smile. No matter how debilitating the event, life keeps moving on: before, during, and after. I have to get out of the bed whether I choose to or not. At least if I choose to, my scurry can change to a hobble.
I get up, fall, then crawl to the French press. I guess it’s for the best.

Michael Kelly

Michael Kelly (’14) graduated from Calvin College with a double major in psychology and writing. Shortly after graduating, he began his graduate level study of educational research, measurement, and evaluation at Boston College. When he is not studying learning and teaching, Michael learns and teaches through stories and writing—fiction and nonfiction, comedy and tragedy, and everything else in between.

1 Comment

Cassie on April 23, 2015 at 5:46 pm

I’m pretty sure I ran into you once while you were moving, and you said: “I’m selling all of my belongings and never buying anything ever again.”

99% sure that was you.

Either way. This post. Very funny.
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