At the beginning of July, we moved from Hell’s Kitchen to the Upper East Side. I am not exaggerating: moving day was one of the most physically taxing days of my life. I know that makes me sound like a bit of a wuss, but I’m telling you: carrying forty or so boxes down three flights and then back up four hurts. We moved out all the boxes ourselves – something I thought would be no biggie around 7AM, and by 11AM had left me with shaking legs and heart palpitations – and then when the guy with the “99% customer satisfaction rate” we had found on CraigsList to help move the five big pieces of furniture showed up, he immediately demanded more money. Shocker. Kendrick, of course, decided to start a fight with him, and he stormed off. Watching him pull away in his tiny hatch-back that wouldn’t have even begun to hold one-sixth of our furniture, I sat down on the pavement and cried. I am twenty-eight years old.
So we called in the reserves: my parents and our friends Dave and Stephen (top row, above), and we made it work – even the ten-thousand-pound antique china cabinet made it up the four flights of stairs intact. (Shoutout to my mom for being the last man standing, and for doing it all with a smile…because despite what you see in this photo, trust me: no one else was smiling.)
At the end of it all we sat on our front stoop and drank cold, delicious beers. Half of mine ended up on the front of my shirt – my muscles weren’t working too well – but man, they tasted good.
Note to self: never again move without actual, for real, Better Business Bureau-certified movers in tow from start to finish. If cannot afford this, do not move. Thx.
