January 19, 2010
Tonight I am packing boxes. Big, monster wardrobe boxes. I don’t like packing. At all.
And this time, its gross.
My apartment is one of four units in a house from the 1920s. It’s charming. It’s unique. It’s got some serious character. Including the basement storage unit, which is basically six wooden pallets wide guarded by some fierce rusty chicken wire — likely installed just after the house was built. The rest of the basement is a mishmash of secret rooms, dirt floors and one humidifier which, for some reason, sits nearly immovable directly in front of my shoddily secure storage door. Argh.
Back in September 2009, there was the Great Atlanta Flood. Luckily, I was living it up in Croatia at the time (I was actually in Split when I saw the status updates on Facebook) when I caught wind of the rising water closing I-75/85.
The dirty, dark old basement in my cute little house was not spared.
And, tonight I got to experience the leftovers of the flood firsthand when I dragged these giant boxes out of my “storage unit.”
Lots and lots of mold. Taking over most of the boxes. Ruining their re-usability.
The hardest part about moving for me is the fact that I have to do it solo. I’ve said it once and I will say it again — moving is not made for people who are single. I am happily single, but every time I move, I find myself hoping, wishing, praying for an extra pair of hands. Hell, one extra hand would suffice. Tonight, there was no one who felt obliged to help me move (and no one within shouting distance) when I took on the wardrobe boxes.
Last year when I was filling my storage unit, I had the brilliant idea to take two wardrobe boxes and cram them into a third box to save space. I must have had my dad with me (or some momentary superhuman strength) when I did this because there is no way I could have jammed the boxes into the other box solo.
Those pain-in-the-ass boxes were barely maneuverable, ridiculously hard to grip and my arms are unable to even wrap around the width of them.
To make it worse, the mold and thick layer of dust and grime was now rubbed all over me. I can only assume I was a sight to anyone Midtown/Virginia Highlands who may have been strolling to the park: dressed in work clothes, purse still on my arm, keys dangling from my pinky, carrying those massive, spider-crusted boxes out of the basement, outside, up my crooked flight of concrete stairs and (finally, breathlessly) into my apartment.
I’ve only had three big moves in my life: Maryland to Las Vegas; Las Vegas to Atlanta; and now, Atlanta to Maryland. They each have their own distinct place in my heart. This one holds an extra special sweet place, not only for the bright and exciting next steps in my life, but also for the mold that is now permeating my lungs and my belongings which will live on while I travel in a climate-controlled storage unit.
Ahhh … moving is grand.