Moving Men…

Earlier in the week I referred to myself as a “moving man” and although this is politically incorrect in the gender generic world we live in I rather like the idea of being a man sometimes!

“Moving woman” sounds wimpy, it shouldn’t, I’m not a wimpy woman, in fact I’m a bit of a feminist, but I am also well bred and I still think it sounds unladylike to associate a woman with manual labour.

“Moving person” could be anyone so that’s why the word person is used so that there is no discrimination.  I don’t like it.

On moving day I was unladylike. I wore my “moving man” hat, trousers and boots, heavy work gloves and a t-shirt to show off my muscles.  With four men (the real kind) I moved my son from his upstairs two bedroom apartment to a ground floor one bedroom apartment all of 800 yards away.

I’m getting good at this, my son has moved three times in three years and this was going to be the final time I agreed to be his preferred moving company.

Hubby and I borrowed our nephew’s truck while he was still in bed, a brawny lad who was not going to be available until after noon!  With my Cruiser we showed up at my son’s flat at the appointed time and waved away the offered breakfast of kolaches and doughnuts in favour of getting the job done.  Within half an hour we had the sectional sofa in the flatbed and all the boxes that had been pre-packed snugly in my car.

Load number two embraced the bedroom furniture, we now had an additional truck with the arrival of the other two moving men, best friends of my son’s.  They were keen to sample doughnuts, kolaches and coffee before getting down to work.  This load took 45 minutes.  The boxes ran out and I had to pack plastic grocery bags.  I’m quick, I tackled the kitchen, open drawer, empty it into the bag, carry it downstairs to the waiting Cruiser,

“That wasn’t all my stuff…” my son gingerly offered at one point, to which I replied, “I wouldn’t know that would I?” and he went off and decanted what was not his from the bags in my car into other bags bound for upstairs and his room-mate’s room.

At my direction we continued moving the dining room table and chairs, coffee tables and television.

My son watched enthralled,

“It’s not going to fit…”  he commented.  He was right but his alternative, to store his excess furniture in my house, was not appealing to me so I told him to post anything he didn’t need on Craig’s List and leave what was left on the side of the the road.   Man enough response?

Load number three involved the washer and dryer which had to be drained and emptied.  The lint trap had never seen the light of the day and was as thick and heavy as a woollen sock, fires have been known to start in dryers because of fluffy lint traps!

By now the grocery bags had run out and I was carting drawer loads of t-shirts and skivvies from the tall boy and clothes on their hangers from the closet.  Yoda came along on this final trip.   The old flat was now looking naked and dusty.  Un-vacuumed portions of the living room were laid bare by the removal of furniture.  The tables and chairs, desks and sofas, bookcases and computers, boxes and bags, were piling up in the new flat.  It was getting harder to maneuver.  Items were being left outside!

We snuck away after 2 1/2 hours of heavy work.  We returned our nephew’s truck; he hadn’t stirred.

I threw away my hat!

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