Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

This weekend I helped some old friends move into their new house. They'd rented the largest truck available, and we filled it twice, in addition to a small rental truck, two loads each for two pickup trucks, and several loads from various cars.

There was still stuff left.

I can't criticize them too harshly, having boxes full of books and papers in my basement, as well. Maybe we should start a support group for pack rats.

One of the other people helping thought I was "enabling" their hoarding by saying things like, "Well, it's okay as long as it all fits in your house."

This same person then threatened to subject the couple to an involuntary yard sale, where she would tie them up and sell their stuff.

You never realize until you move just how much space your stuff takes up, especially if you're a collector. For example, who could guess that those boxes of comic books that had nestled so comfortably into a corner of the (admittedly humongous) basement would take up nearly an entire pickup truck bed?

But my friends are better off than I am, because at least their stuff has a resale value. They, for example, could always go on eBay and sell off some of their comic books, paperbacks and computer parts. Nobody, however, is going to be terribly interested with my boxes full of my own poetry, skits, newspaper clippings or half-written novels.

It's hard to believe that only a little more than a decade ago (OK, we'll call it an even 15 years), I was moving my meager possessions in a dorm room about the size and dimensions of a shoe box. One small closet, precious little shelf space, and a desk with a few small drawers.

From there I'd moved into an efficiency apartment which I shared with someone, and from that to a room in a house, where I lived surrounded by my unopened boxes, even though I'd parked some in the attic. A little later, I left some of my boxes in my mother's attic, only reclaiming them recently, after about seven years!

There are two things I hate about moving: one is having other people handling my stuff. The other is when they say, "Man! You've got a lot of stuff." For some reason, it generally doesn't help to tell them, "Yes, but I got rid of six boxes of stuff while I was packing." This only elicits the response, "You mean, you had even more?"

So call me an enabler, but I could sympathize with my friends' plight.

The first load went easily. By the second load we were dragging. If one of us hadn't taken it upon herself to beat some sense into the rest of us, we wouldn't have moved at all but would have continued "tag-team" moving, which is when you move some stuff and then watch other people move some stuff, while cracking jokes.

There was a basket of Easter candy at the new place, which was a nice incentive for getting stuff up there and a good way to replenish that valuable chocolate energy. And the best part about it was that you could justify eating it: "Look at all the exercise I'm getting today." Nothing is sweeter than guilt-free chocolate.

I made the mistake, early on, of making fun of the guys who were wearing gardening gloves. My main reason for this was that the palms were stained red, unevenly, so that it looked as if you'd just completely a gruesome task, such as tenderizing meat with your palms. Of course, after making fun of these gloves I couldn't swallow my pride and wear them. My palms, which reddened on their own during the day, felt the full irony of my decision.

On an average day, ask your average person what sort of super power they would prefer. Most would answer flying. On moving day, they would answer either "the power to levitate objects" or "supernatural strength."

Superman probably gets really tired of people asking him to help them move. He's started claiming that packing peanuts are made out of Kryptonite, just so he can get out of it. I mean, he'd like a weekend to himself once in awhile.

On the other hand, Aquaman gets bummed that no one ever wants him to help them move. Except for the Little Mermaid that one time, but all she had to take was a few shell mirrors and some frilly bras. Not exactly superhero work.

Likewise, nobody ever wants the Incredible Hulk to help them move. He's strong, all right, but then he heaves your sofa into the street, where it shatters into splinters and ties up traffic.

Wonder Woman is pretty useless, too, unless you need someone to whip people into shape by, for example, tying them up with her Truth Lasso and making them admit that their "five-minute" break actually consisted of 30 minutes reading one of the comic books that fell out of a box in the basement.

At the end of the day, we were all sitting around in the new place, enjoying a delicious pasta meal (which someone helpfully mentioned was carbo-loading in reverse; eating it after the activity rather than before).

"So, what did you learn today?" someone asked in their best sitcom voice.

Another replied, "I learned that material possessions do not lead to happiness but only to aches and pains."

"And a great upper body workout!" someone chimed in.

And, I might add, a colorful collection of bruises on my arms and legs. They formed in the various places where a box slipped or an object poked. I bruise like a peach.

Another thing I learned is that whatever you do, don't fill a box with books. Put books in the bottom and then some cloth or something else light in the top. There is nothing heavier and more hideously painful than a box filled to the lid with books. The only thing that would be denser would be a box full of black hole.

But the most important thing I learned was that you should never, ever, think of something funny while you're carrying something heavy. Because as soon as you do, you're going to be completely incapacitated. This is a real challenge when your friends are sharp-witted. My advice, in a situation like this, is to think about Howie Mandell and Carrot-top. Unless you think they're funny, in which case there is no hope for you.

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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