Adventures in Moving, or, the Trials and Tribulations of My Left Hand
Not dead. Feel remarkably like it, though.
It seems to be inevitable that a move will be accompanied by various small injuries (hopefully no big ones). Along with the usual collection of bruises I always get, I managed to damage my left hand three, count ’em, three times in one day.
First injury: Revenge of the Futon. While I was dismantling a mostly-broken futon frame, the skin on the heel of my hand got badly pinched when a piece of the frame shifted suddenly and yanked a big flat-headed screw back up against the metal, with a bit of me in between. (If the bruise ends up as interesting as I think it might, I’ll post pictures. So far, it’s made a good start.) To be fair, this one may have happened because I had just called the frame a series of exceedingly vulgar names out of my frustration at its broken-ness. It was headed to the dumpster anyway . . . but it got its vengeance on the way out.
Second injury: Ghosts from Beyond the Wall. While I was maneuvering a big set of metal shelving up the basement stairs, one of the upright bars slammed into the edge of a step, with (you guessed it) a bit of me in between. This time, it was the middle finger of my left hand. This one may have happened because my partner in moving the shelving was a former employee/manager of Beyond the Wall, a now-defunct local poster store from which I got the shelving when it shut down. She made her hatred of that shelving quite clear, and I guess since it had no middle finger with which to flip her off, it went after mine.
Third injury: Just When You Thought You Were Safe. With all the furniture moving done, we went for Chinese buffet (not great, but perfect when what you really want is to shovel food endlessly down your gullet). They had just brought out a brand-new tureen of egg drop soup, and in trying to maneuver the long-handled ladle under the plastic buffet cover without dropping my bowl into the tureen, I spilled burning-heat-of-the-sun hot soup over the index and middle fingers of my left hand. That felt great on the middle one, let me tell you.
But all the furniture is here now (and “here” now means the new place, instead of the old one). There’s still a fair bit of stuff not moved, but I’ve unpacked probably about 80% of the books, and we have an internet connection, and life is good.
Or it would be, if my legs would stop cramping up every time I sit down for more than sixty seconds.