The yoga of moving

I’m only half-kidding with the post title. Yogagrrl’s yoga of relocation consists mainly of neck stretches and deep breathing. Well, not TOO deep because of the dust and the dog hair. Even as I write, a very nice group of men is gathering up all the boxes I have packed, furniture I have dismantled, and things we previously agreed they’d pack and/or dismantle and moving it out into an enormous truck. But a Yogagrrl story is not complete without complications.

Last night, Shane came over to help motivate finish the last of my packing. If I’d thought kitchen packing was tedious, clearly I hadn’t given much thought to bathroom necessities. Ugh. WHY DO I HAVE SO MUCH LIPSTICK? At any rate, he used my computer, which meant I couldn’t access the internet, which meant that I packed (at least, right after yoga class). I packed, he wrote a paper. We both finished up at about 12:30 this morning. The movers are scheduled to arrive at 8:30.

My car was very low on gas and, due to rearranging things for the movers, I couldn’t park in the garage. I went out to fill up and buy a gallon of milk. I locked the doors and drove to the store. I am going to have cereal and a good night’s sleep and never look at cardboard again. When I got home, I opened the garage door (the way I always do) and walked in to open the back door of the house (the way I always do) and discovered that – contrary to what I always do – I’d locked the back door.

Normally this wouldn’t be a problem except that last week I signed with a realtor and gave her the key off of my keychain. And the spare keys were in the house. And Carly was in Ann Arbor. So at 1am, I’m in my garage, desperately searching for some wire to pick the lock with (as though I could? I’m watching TOO MUCH crime drama) but of course I have been wildly efficient and packed the ENTIRE EFFING GARAGE. There is no wire to be found.

There is no locksmith to be found.

I call Shane and ask if I can bunk at his place on campus. Because I am old and lame. He asked if I could stop and get him a 2 liter of Diet Coke. I did. And my milk, because I didn’t want it to explode in my car. And I slept on his air mattress. Did I mention the movers were supposed to show up at 8:30? I got up at 5:30. At 6 am I called the realtor and asked if there was any chance she could come let me into my house with the key in the lock box. Luckily she has kids, was getting ready to take them to school, and I was kind of on the way.

I bought some light timers, stopped at McD’s for breakfast, called Carly to share what a colossal idiot I am, and then headed back to the house. At about 7:45 she arrived (my savior!) and I was able to brush my teeth and look mostly human by the time the movers showed up. Except that I hadn’t disconnected the tank from our gas grill and then had to hunt up the keys to the myriad toolboxes so that I could detach it. Then I had to scrape snow off of the patio furniture that we’re taking with us.

Then my modem stopped working when I moved the shelving it was sitting on.

It has not been a restful day. I am supposed to teach yoga at 7:30 tonight and am despairing of not getting a nap. The yoga of relocation is to curl up and die in a sleeping bag on the floor of my empty house.

To add insult to injury, I really really REALLY want Taco Bell and they do not deliver. CURSES!