I recently moved from New York City to Philadelphia and let me tell you it was a real pleasure cruise.
Moving was not only easy but also cheap. I may move again just for the fun of it. In case you can’t get a sense of my tone from reading this, I’m being sarcastic. And honestly, I feel like I’m laying it on pretty thick so shame on you if you’re not getting it.
Movers have two costs: pizza and beer or fucking expensive. I’ve used up all my favors from friends to help me move so now I am at the stage where I have to pay large men to help me. Movers are luggage handlers. They have a job to do but don’t care much about your stuff. Unlike the airport, my precious belongings do not have those little address tags on them, and the movers could drive away forever, and I’d never see my matchbook collection again.
I don’t even remember our mover’s names. I think one was Grunt and the other was Mute. They just showed up and start moving shit. Grunt made me sign away any responsibility for the moving company if anything was lost, damaged, or completely obliterated. Then it was all straight razors, and the screeching noise of packing tape ripped from its dispenser. They threw my items onto carts with all the grace of inebriated gorillas. I wrote fragile in big black letters on a box and I could hear them laughing followed by the sound of glass breaking.
I honestly don’t know how to assess moving costs. If the movers told me it cost a million dollars I’d be like, “Wow, seems steep, but I don’t feel like renting a gigantic truck and then loading and unloading all my shit. So you got a deal, a million dollars it is.”
Packing up always starts very organized. My wife and I had boxes for specific items. We bought tape labeled with different rooms of a home like a kitchen, living room, and bullshit we don’t need anymore, but we’re packing anyway. This system worked for a little while until we got to the miscellaneous stuff. That’s when we abandoned any sense of order. Everything went into the wardrobe box.
“What I do with these shoes?” My wife yelled from under a pile of sneakers.
“Put em in the wardrobe box,” I responded, struggling to take apart a bed frame with an axe.
“What about these DVDs?”
“Put em in.”
“What about the baby?”
“Put em in.”
I’m exaggerating a bit of course. We would never put loose DVDs into a huge box. They’d be a pain in the dick to get out of there. I’d have to tip over the box and crawl in there like a total asshole.
What it comes down to is that moving is a chance to purge. I wanted to unclutter my wife and finally get rid of all the crap I gathered over the years. Why do I have a shoebox full of bottle caps? They serve no purpose except to remind of how much beer I’ve drunk over the years. Instead of chucking anything I end up taking it from the back of one closet and putting it into another. I’ll bring this crate of CDs to different zip codes for the rest of my life. I don’t even have a CD player.
I don’t know when but we’ll move again. What I know for sure is that all the stuff I should have thrown out this time I’ll bring with me to not throw out next time.