I’m embarrassingly terrible about moving. I have very little patience—scratch that, I have no patience. Whereas David will methodically organize items in boxes, tape them up, and label them, I’ll just sweep my arm across my desk and into the box, the same way I might wipe crumbs from the kitchen counter into the trash. Nail files, mini DV tapes, papers, keys, pens, random wires: they pile into the cardboard like so much hurricane detritus into a dumpster truck.
It’s not only the packing I suck at. Few people “like” schlepping, but I’m downright allergic to it. I’m the person who buys the beer and pizza, the one who rents and drives the U-Haul –- not the one who grunts and carries and drags. After ten minutes of assisting David in the removal of vertical blinds, my composure began to slip. My sighs became more audible, and I may or may not have begun to whine complaints such as, “My arm is tired,” or “I have to pee.”
When his simmering irritation reaches a boiling point, David excuses me so that he can actually get some work done. It is during these times that I might pick up a book and read while I watch him label boxes, or call a friend to commiserate about what a drag it is to move. Most recently, I had some help. My dad came over to check out the new digs. So while David ran up and down the stairs, measuring spaces, or whatever it is he does to prepare for a move, Dad and I did what we do best – have fun. And we had toys -- Dad just got an iPhone, so after he showed me all of the photos from his recent road-trip through Lake Tahoe and Yosemite, we played around with the video feature. Fortunately, our laughter didn't annoy David, at least not too much.