When we moved from the city to our small town nearby, we were excited to be moving to a place only thirty years old. Our first home was built in 1926, so the next one, constructed in 1967, was practically brand new in our eyes.
Now here we are in something absolutely untouched by human hands other than our own - not counting the drywall guys, painters, rug men, and tile crew. It takes some getting used to. Not to mention a learning curve. I spent the first days here unpacking, cleaning, and moving things from one place to another. This was followed by aching legs and total exhaustion. Why was I so tired? Sure, I’d been on my feet all day, but I’ve done the same amount of work at home without feeling like all the bulls of Pamplona had tap danced across me.
I’m a simple girl, accustomed to the linoleum in the kitchen and the hardwood floors (badly in need of care) at our house in Massachusetts. It took a full two days before I realized that I’m in the 21st century, now living with hard tile floors capable of working havoc on your back and legs. I have a new and profound respect for museum guards as they shift their weight on those marble floors.
I also discovered the absolute, gotta have ‘em, most important tools of moving.
Even though one shoulder is now so low as to rival that of Igor’s, I now travel nowhere without my giant tape measure. I’ve used it at Big Lots to gauge how high an organizer to buy for the junk drawer, and whether the lamp at Home Depot will be tall enough to provide a decent reading light for Himself. (It would also likely provide excellent ballast should I need to belt someone with my purse, Ruth Buzzi-style.)
The other crucial tool is a pair of scissors. I’m already on my second pair, having finally destroyed the valiant first pair. EVERYTHING you buy today is encased a rock-hard shell of plastic, and then strapped onto another piece of plastic inside. Then you have your tags, and loops, and ties.
Unless you only want to view your new objects, impregnable in their nuclear-proof shell, or never intend to put that chair for the porch together, you need a good pair of scissors.
Tonight, though, there was an extreme emergency. My el-cheapo corkscrew died at a really crucial moment. It still pays to know your way around a toolbox.