Sometimes the Hardest Thing and the Right Thing AREN'T the Same

I was raised in a household in which we didn't take the easy way out of anything. If you could do it yourself, make it yourself, find it yourself, you did because the easy way was (and is) usually more expensive. Nearly all home improvements were of Dad's handywork. As kids, my siblings and I pulled our share of nails out of old two-by-fours so Dad could reuse the wood; that ALWAYS made for a fun Saturday afternoon (insert eye roll). Even something as simple as Hamburger Helper - I hadn't even seen a box or tried a bite of that stuff until I was in college. My mom made EVERYTHING from scratch. Mac and cheese from the box was a rarity. Clothes were made, patched, hemmed by Mom. If not, they probably came in big old boxes from one of my other cousins: hand-me-downs. Let me tell you: there was NOTHING more exciting than getting a big old box of clothes shipped from my cousin in North Carolina. It was like that part of the world held all new fashion treasures that West Central Ohio had yet to see. Going through those boxes was a dream. All that being said, taking the easy way is not really an option for a Buehler.

And this has surely carried through to my adulthood; it's certainly pervading my current situation. In three days, I will be moving for about the 12th time in the last 10 years. Yeah. Let that sink in for a moment: 12 times in 10 years. Now, the first 10 of those moves were either within the village of Ada, or they were back and forth between Ada and Anna; those moves were no big deal. About eight of them didn't really involve furniture, either. Fortunately for me, back then, I had lots of friends and family around to help. For my last three moves or so, in particular, I had my dear friend Z to help me, and this girl LOVES carrying heavy stuff. I've seen her tote a 36" TV - you know, one of the old ones that's just as deep as it is wide - across an intersection from one apartment to the next like it was a basket of laundry. She did it all just for some Padrone's pizza and my friendship (and don't even get me STARTED on the fact that I can't reward myself for ANYTHING with Padrone's anymore). Everyone should have a Z in his/her life (and if it's MY Z, you're even BETTER off, because she's amazing).

Okay, so we're about 60 hours from Emily's 12th move. Why another move? Why couldn't I just stay put for once? Well, I'm gaining a roommate in a few weeks, and we simply must have more than one bedroom (although if you know me well, you know where my real bedroom is and what my so-called "bedroom" is actually used for). This move won't be bad either. To give you an idea of how simple it will probably be - I can see my new apartment from the window of my current apartment; my stuff needs to go out, down one flight of stairs, across the parking lot about 20 yards, and up two flights of stairs to its new home. OF COURSE, my mind is programmed to do all of this the hard way. My thought process: "If I put in a few full days of my hardest work, I can do this all by myself. I'll just need help with the furniture." Chuckle. Just plain chuckle. Come on, chuckle with me, people.

At this point, I'd like to apologize if you're a close friend or family member. This do-it-yourself/do-it-the-hard-way mentality should only cause ME pain and suffering, not you. It's this sort of thought process that compels me to ask you if you can/will help me move, and I should NOT be asking you to help me lug a couch up two flights of stairs in the late July heat of North Carolina (especially if you're my even more stubborn and headstrong dad, who will probably never take the easy way out of anything). Thus, after the urging and advisement of various parties, I have chosen to take the EFFICIENT route: a crew of professional movers. Rationality has won this round (and charm won the second round, in which it got the moving company to knock a few dollars off their quote).

For the next 60 hours, then, I'm staring at a pretty bleak and lifeless apartment full of boxes, with which I was tempted to build a fort before I so eagerly filled them with all my possessions (you'll notice that I also took the easy route on the boxes - thank you, Home Depot). Things will be pretty calm until Friday, when I'm expecting a whole crew of people to get everything out of one apartment and into another within the course of one day: movers, the Internet guy, the washer/dryer guys, and my dear cousin, Stacie. And you know, it seems that she and I have come full circle: from big boxes of hand-me-downs shipped from her when I was a kid to the big boxes of my stuff that we'll transport this weekend. It's all about the boxes, baby. Maybe if this move goes super smooth, with little effort on Stacie's and my part, we can return to our childhood ways and make a fort out of the boxes after we unpack everything; now THAT might be one of the perks of efficiency.

As a final note, I hope the moving guys appreciate the ice cold Gatorade and nutritious granola bars I'm using as a sort of peace offering to them. It's no Padrone's pizza - that's for sure - but I think it'll do the trick.

Peace, love, and hand trucks--

Emily