I helped a friend move earlier this week. My body continues to signal to me, from fresh areas everyday, that it still hurts. It was up there with some of the worst moves I’ve ever done. Not the absolute worst, mind you, that honor goes to a move that involved two states, three locations, four flights of stairs and a fold-out couch. However this move was pretty bad. The television was roughly the size of a Buick and there was true horror on our faces when we realized that the dollies we were carrying stuff on wouldn’t fit up the staircase at the second location. From there on out it was basically a game of “Don’t Let the 200 Pound Television Crush You.” Or the preposterously heavy wooden desk. That thing was sitting on my knee at one point while those around me wept.
I’m still amazed at how many odd muscles came into play and are now sore. Making fists hurts. Wiggling my toes feels odd. I find it strange that the exercise I’ve started performing with my body prepared me in absolutely no way for this real world task…although maybe it would have been that much worse without my daily cardio.
It was the kind of day that you shrug off and smile about when it’s over but secretly you think you’ll wind up writing a short story about it where a piano stuck in a stairway represents someone’s crumbling marriage and there’s a crazy uncle with a gambling problem.
It was the kind of day that makes you want to write Russian literature.