This past weekend I had to move a bunch of furniture from my future in-laws’ home to my little house. They are downsizing to a smaller home, and have been donating, selling, and/or rehoming nearly twenty years’ worth of accumulation to whoever will take it. That means a great deal of their goods have made their way to Dr. Fiancée and me.
The move itself was not terrible, although we had the brutal task of moving an elliptical machine from their second-story rec room to their first-floor garage. I recruited two former Music students of mine (quipping, “you didn’t know when you signed up for Music in the seventh grade that it was a lifelong commitment”; one of them rejoined, “I should have signed up for Drama”) to assist in the hurly-burly, and we got it all done. We’re in the midst of a severe heatwave here in the South, so all three of us guzzled down water. One of my guys got a bit lightheaded from the heat and exertion, but still managed to assist admirably.
In the process, we moved a recliner, couch, nightstand, dresser, and queen-sized bed (with mattress, boxspring, frame, and headboard) into my little house. I also received a Husqvarna riding lawnmower—quite a gift!
The idea is that I will live like a hoarder for the next nine months or so until Dr. Fiancée and I purchase a home together—one that will, hopefully, accommodate all of this furniture (it will).
But moving all of this nice furniture (thanks, Dr. Fiancée’s mom and dad!) meant getting a truck and trailer large enough to pull it off. That meant making a reservation with—groan—U-Haul.
The Portly Politico 