Sex & the Single Woman: Moving without a Man
For the most part, I’m pretty content being single. I don’t have to check in with anyone, I can hog the bed, I don’t have to watch ESPN. This weekend, however, I was definitely longing for a man in my life.
Because it was Moving Day.
The last time I moved, my ex-boyfriend kindly did all the heavy lifting and transporting. Unfortunately – or fortunately, if you’re a therapist – I no longer speak to him. And the current guy I’m seeing is pretty unreliable when it comes to tasks that could be seen as boyfriend-y. So what did I do? I packed it all up and moved it myself. Or I intended to, anyway.
I live in London, which has a wealth of public transportation options available. And since I had to pick up a key from the leasing agents first anyway, I decided to take a bulky suitcase on a double-decker bus (think I only whacked two people in the shoulder with the monstrous thing). Unfortunately, the bus took ages, and I got off at the wrong stop, which meant I had to drag said suitcase about a mile to the agency. Keys in hand, I then had to drag the suitcase another half-mile from the agency to my new flat, up three flights of stairs, naturally. And what perfect timing for a London heat wave.
Feeling irritable and exhausted, I headed back to my old flat and considered my options. Quitting? Suicide? Car service? Ah, yes. I paid about $40 to have a driver tackle two more massive suitcases and assorted odds and ends. He happily unloaded it all, then watched me heave it all on my own up those three flights. Thanks, pal.
Needless to say, I’m bruised, weary, and achy. But all was not lost—my new Italian flatmate (a guy!) took pity on me and whipped up some homemade pasta. I do the heavy lifting, he does the cooking? Sounds like a good deal to me.