I was living in a nice apartment, in a good central neighborhood, paying a reasonable rent. Of course, because I often have bouts of brain flatulence, I decided to move.
OK, so moving wasn't such a brain-fart of an idea. As a result of the move, I live in an even nicer apartment, in an even better neighborhood, and I pay less rent. The only real disadvantage to the deal is that I had to move to northwest Reno, which I am convinced is really a suburb of Verdi, and is close to nothing of interest except for possibly Super K-mart.
Oh, there was more disadvantage to moving: I had to actually move. Moving, in a word or two, blows chunks. It makes you insane, weird, and goofy. Consider typical moving behavior such as:
-- The mad search for boxes. When you move, you have to pack all of your things into boxes, making them easier to carry, and a lot easier to break all at once rather than one at a time.
And when you move, you become obsessed with boxes. You go into stores, hoping to find an empty box. or two or 14. It does not matter what these boxes look like; as long as they have six sides and do not have blatant holes in them, they'll do. As a result, you can have people putting their jewelry or kitchen utensils or compact discs or whatever into boxes that have "KOTEX MAXI PADS" or "TROJAN RIBBED 'TICKLER' CONDOMS" logos on the side. It can be quite a hoot.
Another option is for people to buy boxes from places such as U-Haul or office supply stores. Of course, these boxes aren't cheap, and you feel like a real dweeb when you end up plopping down $30 for boxes just like those thrown away or recycled by the truckload every day at stores across the world. But, hey, at least they don't say "EXTRA-STRENGTH PREPARATION H" on the side. Unless you really want them to.
-- The packing procrastination game. I have never seen anybody who is in the process of moving actually start packing early and end up finishing in a timely, orderly fashion. This never happens. Instead, people put it off until the last minute. Let's say someone is scheduled to move on a Friday and be out of their old place by 5 p.m.; this is how packing typically will go.
Monday: Get off to a good start by packing. Pack one box.
Tuesday: Go on a mad hunt for boxes, harassing unlucky supermarket clerks for their emptied Cheez Whiz boxes.
Wednesday: Watch "Dharma and Greg."
Thursday: Look for more boxes. Go by U-Haul, and have a minor heart attack when you realize how much the boxes cost.
Friday morning: Start packing that second box.
Friday afternoon, 4:30 p.m.: Realize that you are completely screwed.
-- The unpacking game. After you get moved out and then moved into the new place (a process usually involving serious breakage of both possessions and portions of one's back), then you have to unpack.
At first, you are excited to unpack and make your new place look more habitable, and less like a serious U-Haul truck explosion took place. But this soon gets old, and you start rummaging through boxes to look for the important belongings (such as work clothes, clean underwear, toothpaste, beer, etc.), just to get by, figuring you'll put the stuff away later.
Over several days, you'll make some slow progress unpacking. But after a while, the tasks of everyday life (working, putting on clean underwear, brushing your teeth, drinking beer) catch up with you. As a result, some boxes never get unpacked, and sit in a closet or garage until the next time you move.
-- Inspecting for damage: This is the final step in the moving process. It is inevitable that during the process of a move, something will get messed up, in addition to your back. For example, you may discover that your TV does not work; upon further review, you'll realize the TV no longer functions because a "VICKS NASAL SPRAY" box full of books has went through the screen.
I was fortunate during my move that very few things were damaged. The worst damage happened in my car's back seat, where a full container of Italian salad dressing tipped over and dispersed its contents all over the place.
This means that whenever I drive somewhere, I am reminded of my moving experience by that fragrant mix of vinegar and spices. Now, if I purposely drive in front of a Peterbilt truck, you'll understand why. It's just part of the moving process.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan who shrieks at the sight of U-Haul trucks as of late. His column appears here Tuesdays, and he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@stanfordalumni.org.