Many of us have moving stories. We've all had relatives, friends, ex-roommates, acquaintances and hangers-on who, over the years, have innocently asked us: “Hey, can you give me a hand moving this coming Saturday?” - or something like that. It's always “just a few boxes” or “it will be easy,” which in hindsight is laughable, as these assurances turn out to be anything but the truth. And if you sit down and compile, correlate, and compare all the moving horror stories you have experienced first hand, been involved with, or have heard tell of, there are generally a few standard themes: nothing is packed, people are disorganized, not enough time, on an impossible deadline. Usually there are others to help, so it softens the frustration or 'impossible-ness' of it all. But afterward we all usually vow “Never, ever, ever help ANYONE to move again!” It's like that vow we take every time we have a mind-blasting hangover, which in the end is always broken.
A few years ago I had the experience that I can only describe as all your worst nightmares, all your most outrageous helping-so-and-so-move stories, all your worst fears regarding any of that rolled into one. And afterward I got pretty good at relating it all, in about a half and hour, which still had me speed-talking my way though the details, sometimes leaving the smaller things out. Universally when I finished my listeners would react the same way: “Oh...My...God....”
