Moving Season
It’s moving season in Chicago. Every leafy side street is full of U-hauls and hatchbacks. Alley stairwells everywhere echo with stuck sofas and clanging bed frames.
Although the sticky heat is a terrible time for hauling box springs and arm chairs, 40-below and in 2-feet of unplowed snow is infinitely worse, I imagine.
Around here it’s especially busy as the new and old waves of college students waft back to town. Lots of plastic drawer units on curbs and frustrated dads double-parked.
We helped a friend move out last weekend and he couldn’t event get a truck, they were all booked solid.
At 20, I balked at people paying for movers. I couldn’t imagine asking someone else to carry my stuff. Of course I also was systematically selling my VHS collection on eBay to pay the phone bills each month, so my sense of economy was deeply skewed to DIYing even the obscure.(I once walked over a mile on a twisted ankle — with many whimpering breaks on park benches and garden walls — because it didn’t even occur to me I could pay a cabbie to drive me home.)
But now, after two carloads up to a 4-story walk up, with sore knees, bruised hips, and two days of a tight back, I have to wonder if it’s really all that bad. If someone younger and stronger than me has the time and inclination they can have an obscene amount of my money. Fair trade.
Que Sera Sara? 