On the day that Sophie moved from one side of our apartment to the other.
I made myself useful.
First. I tried to convince her to hire a UHaul. Or reserve a freight elevator. You know To get the real moving experience.
I even offered to help her to move her stuff into the UHaul. So that we could drive around for a bit. Sing some moving tunes. Get in the moving spirit. And then use the freight elevator (that we so conscientiously reserved) to lug it back upstairs.
Same apartment. Different room.
That was when Sophie informed me that, romantic though it might seem, the “moving experience” was actually highly overrated. And something that she’d actually rather not encounter. Ever again.
So there went that pipe dream.
Then. I attempted to bubble wrap all of her belongings. Our hallway is a long and dangerous place. Traversing it is an epic journey in and of itself. Especially when carrying boxes of anatomy textbooks or drawer-fuls of clothing. Anything could happen.
Be safe. Wrap it up.
After this. I think it started to dawn on her just how restless I was. And so we moved two shelving units from her old room into the kitchen. And decided to use them to display all of my cookbooks. For the world to see.
I think it was on my 60th trip. Somewhere around the midway point. That I started to feel vaguely ill. Partially because. Moving sucks. And partially because. You just don’t realize how many cookbooks you own. Until one day. You do. It can be appalling.
