I put the MOVE in MOVE

I moved! It wasn't pretty or fun or really efficient in any way, but I did it. The whole experience wasn't close to being as traumatic as my move from Harlem to BK two years ago.. but it was still pretty awful.

Backstory: I'm moving in with a cool chick (a friend of a friend) who is moving here from DC. We found our new place a few weeks ago with the aid of the craziest broker in all the land, and I've been so excited for a fresh start, new walls, and.. wait for it.. a dishwasher!

The thing is, my new place is only 5 blocks away from my current apartment. This is.. close enough for me to think that I can plausibly move all of my things alone, on foot, with the help of my bike and rolling luggage, yet far away enough for this to be a GIANT pain in the ass and huge time sucker.

• I make two trips from my old apartment to my new apartment with my bike. I put bags on the handlebars, and I have to push the bike because the load is too heavy to ride. This results in two very banged up legs.
• Then I put a ton of stuff in my rolling luggage and wheel it down 5 blocks (and back). I never realize how truly terrible the sidewalks are in my neighborhood! Really wish I had paid more attention to the last mayoral election!
• At this point I am completely drenched in sweat (have I mentioned its 87 degrees out?!).. and I notice that my roommate's moving truck is now empty. She and her boyfriend have finished unloading, and they're off to a beer garden to watch the World Cup (LUCKIES!). I bid them farewell and ask if I can use their 12 foot moving truck to more efficiently transport my crap. (I've logged 3 miles on foot at this point, and the thought of carrying another load by hand makes me want to cry). Though I have a little PTSD about driving moving trucks (flashback to hitting a bus in Chinatown), I do it.. I drive that 12 foot truck. And I park it illegally outside my apartment.
• This is the sprinting part of the moving marathon (is there a sprinting part of a marathon??). I have to load the moving truck as fast as possible with all the things that I can carry on my own before I get ticketed or towed. I run up and down stairs, taking them two at a time, sweating in places I didn't even know could sweat.
• Then, there is this homeless-ish man (he may live in his van across the street) who I see on a daily basis but I generally don't engage with him. On moving day, he talks to me and offers his help in carrying boxes. The gesture is sweet, but this guy is old and it is hot out, and I have this image of me holding a homeless guy in my arms while he dies of cardiac arrest from carrying my box of hair products... Still, the guy is relentless. So eventually I give in and let him carry the boxes from the door to the moving truck. This saves me virtually no work, but I guess he feels better about the fact that I am all alone and moving on the hottest day of the summer and SOAKED IN SWEAT. As we load the last box, he asks me why my boyfriend isn't helping me. I give him the side-eye and say: "Don't need 'em" and I close the door to the moving truck and buckle up. When I get to my new apt, I find a stellar parking spot and begin unloading... (more sweating and grunting and running ensues... etc etc.)
• Here's the part where you're probably like--"Amanda, you've done so much moving! You must be almost done!" The sad truth is, this is not true. I haven't moved any of my furniture (bed, dresser, piano bench, TV, etc.). But never fear because I have questionable movers from Craig's List coming at some point.. though they have no idea when they will show up. I keep my phone with me at all times, and they eventually arrive at 4 in a graffitied moving truck. They are old. They are Russian. They are mean.
• I haggle about a flat rate price (though I thought it would be hourly!) with the bigger Russian while I simultaneously wonder how in God's name the second Russian (who is approx. 72 years old) is going to contribute in any way. I hold my own with price negotiation because I've already done so much work on my own. We agree on a price with tip included, and I tell them I'll help to make it as fast as possible. When I made this offer, I wasn't expecting to do the most/make the most trips. But I did.
• The big Russian mostly just tumbls my furniture down three flights of stairs. I think: "Well I could have done that!" I carry a bunch of stuff too, and the old guy arranges in the van. The homeless-ish man hangs around too and observes. It's quite a modge podge of characters carrying my most cherished possessions.
• I tell the Russian movers that I'll ride my bike and they can follow me to the next apt. Without debate, they pick up my bike and put it in the back of the truck. "You ride with us," they say. I squeeze in the front seat of the truck and sit on an upside down milk crate between the two smelly Russians.
• When we get to my apartment, the owner of my building (an Hasidic Jew) and my new super (a Latino) are changing the AC filter in the apartment. When we leave so we can begin moving, my movers start shit-talking my new apartment and the owner because he's Jewish. "I'd never pay money to a Jew," the big one says! I'm mortified because I don't want my landlord to hear him, and I don't want to be associated with this racist mover in any way. The racial slurs continue in English and Russian as we tumble UP all my furniture. Boris and Billwinkle leave without saying goodbye. 
• I clear a pathway of boxes so I can leave the apartment. I ride my bike back to my first apartment to finish cleaning my room. I make the very last trip with frozen vegetables and a roll of toilet paper in my backpack. I hurt all over, inside and out. Later my roommate and her boyfriend come back from the bar, and we order pizza and make pre-made chocolate chip cookies. I put my bed together. I fall asleep on top of my covers with my contacts in and my bra still on. I guess I'm home.