Moved To Tears

I really haven't been myself lately, and no I'm not talking about the teenage girl who occasionally seizes the wheel of the Bonemobile, I'm talking about a unique kind of dementia invariably brought about when a man is asked to move all of his worldly possessions from one domicile to another. Compounded exponentially by the fact that the new dwelling is a "fixer upper."

I've undertaken this superhuman task two other times in my life and both times I vowed to never do it again. Yet here I am hanging on to a rapidly dwindling thread of sanity--befouled by paint, spackle, blood, sweat, grime, pizza sauce--unshaven, unshowered, sporting an odor like a German wrestler, and wearing clothes that I intend to bury if this nightmare ever ends.

If perhaps you think I'm exaggerating the agony I'm undergoing, I'll share with you the results of a governmental study that ranked the stress and trauma caused by certain unfortunate events that life can offer. Garnering the number one spot, was being sentenced to a lengthy prison term, number two was the death of a close loved-one, number three was being diagnosed with a terminal illness--and yes ladies and gentlemen, number four was moving. Moving. Impressive company, no? And that's just moving--this is a fixer up/move.

Just as a public service, here are a few tips for those of you either engaged in, or contemplating a move. Number one--never polish your fine wood furniture with the shirt that your wife gave you for Christmas. Number Two--never tell your friends that you're planning to move, (especially if they own a pick-up truck), because they will vanish faster than a snowflake in hell. Call Scully and Mulder--see if they can find them. They won't be reappearing until the first barbecue.

Yes, you'll find out who your true friends are when you move. Actually you'll find out that you don't have any friends. If they show up at all they'll leave their car idling, and have a good excuse at the ready. And as soon as they hear that Charlton Heston desperation in your voice they're outta there. "How come you left your car running? Hey where ya goin'--we got pizza? For God's sake don't leave me . . . Noooo . . . come back, come back and paint like a man, you worthless piece of human garbage. Damnit man, can't you see I'm dying here? You ... have... no ... sooouuulll.

This actually happens about five days in--the standard rules that govern safety, sanity and civility are temporarily suspended. For example, unless I'm completely out of my mind from countless hours of wallowing in dust and filth masking baseboard, I generally won't allow my baby daughter to play with industrial solvents. The mindset is that once I'm finished with this whole ungodly project, I'll go back to being a responsible parent, there'll be no more letting her eat spackle right out of the can, because that's just wrong.

Then along about 3:30 in the morning the fabric of sanity has worn so thin that the ordinary framework of human decency no longer applies. Ugly and hurtful exchanges, savage words between loving couples are commonplace and just as readily forgiven. Ordinarily if I were to call my wife a useless miserable swamp witch I'd be in some deep . . . profound poop. But during a tough move this kind of talk is acceptable chit-chat. She'll usually respond with a creative suggestion as to where I might holster my putty knife--for example.

It's unbelievable the amount of crap one manages to accumulate--I've been a married adult long enough to amass a staggering mountain of stuff. Most of which I just can't bring myself to part with--everything seems to have "sentimental value" or "future potential." Fortunately after enough hours of near constant labor, you reach a point where some of those souvenirs from past chapters of your life, just have to go. Clothes that you'll never be able to fit into again--so long. That dusty collection of 8-Track tapes--good-bye. Those naked pictures of your ex-wife--not so fast. They don't take up much room? Sorry honey--I make cheap jokes for a living.

Perhaps the worst part is having to watch other people enjoying normal life, (because you long for normal life) it's like those cruel experiments using sleep deprivation, this is normal life deprivation. You see people engaging in it--riding a bike, roller-blading, catching some rays at the park. "Rays"--the sun mocks me--"you cannot enjoy me you silly mover," it taunts, "but I will make your car seats hotter than the surface of Venus for you." Thank you oh benevolent giver of life. But you press doggedly on. You're a man on a mission. If you smash your hand, you count your fingers and get on with it. If you gouge a hole in your foot, you march on, (as long as you're not bleeding on the new carpet). You're the walking wounded, the shell-shocked foot soldier in a war that seems to have no end. The only thought that keeps you from a total nervous collapse, is that if you keep moving on--one day you will get to move in.

The most dangerous part of it all comes when it's almost over with and you're pretty much restored to normal life status--this is where you have to beware. Because pretty soon the whole thing starts to fade from your memory (you remember no more of it's pain than you would a flu shot) this is where I must warn you, because if you too quickly dispatch the memories of the suffering you've just put yourself through, you may be tempted to do it again.