167) Solo Movers

When moving in or out of an apartment as a single girl, I find that there's a dual internal dialogue that takes place. As I packed the suitcases and boxes, sold almost all of my furniture on Craigslist, spackled all the nail holes, cleaned every surface, and hauled all my belongings down a flight of stairs and into my car one heavy box at a time, all I could hear in my head was, all the women who independent, throw your hands up at me (see above). But when I realized that I had to get my queen-sized mattress and bookshelf down said flight of stairs and onto the street solo, my thoughts quickly became, dang, I wish I had a guy here to help me.

It's generally expected that your significant other will wingman (or wingwoman) your move. It's understood that any tortuous lifting, packing, and transporting will be a shared experience, a joint effort whose fruits will be enjoyed later. The single ones are lacking of such a built in moving team. Asking a friend for help is a huge favor, one that dwarfs the ride to the airport request. (Mini aside - a HUMONGOUS THANK YOU to Skot, who rescued me from the mattress and bookshelf, and even helped me figure out the Tetris puzzle that was fitting all my possessions into the Civic.)

So here's to all the solo movers out there. It's simultaneously inspiring, liberating in that I-can-do-anything-on-my-own way, until you run into the one thing you can't do.

(Mini aside - Or major aside? After what seems like an eternity of move-out procedures, I turned in the keys to my apartment this afternoon. It was a fantastic spot, and I'll always look back fondly (slash yearningly?). These past couple of weeks have been a physical and emotional whirlwind, and I'm sort of glad that it's all coming to an end (not my time in LA, more the uprooting). I'm crashing at my aunt's house tonight, and then driving back to Palo Alto some time tomorrow morning. I feel like a "goodbye for now LA" post would have been appropriate, but I don't think my brain can handle it right now.)