When we moved the first time, I tried my best to convince my husband to call a moving company. He figured that because moving my stuff from my apartment to his was so simple, he could do it himself with his eyes shut. I tried to explain that in the five years that we had been living there together, we had accumulated a lot more stuff, plus moving one person’s stuff is not a huge challenge, but when you add another person and two dogs into the equation things become a little more difficult.
I could have told you then that this was going to be one of those classic ‘I told you so’ moments that I would cherish for years and he would cringe every time I mentioned it. He told me I was just lazy. Heh.
On the day that we moved, it seemed like a great day to move, and he looked almost like he had everything under control. Although he certainly wasn’t a professional moving service, I figured I would give a little credit where credit was due. Unfortunately that feeling did not last for very long.
The first few items exited the apartment without any drama. He had invited a buddy of his from the restaurant he managed to come out and help move the heavier items. As they lifted the second part of our (my) precious twenty-five hundred dollar Italian leather sectional sofa up and headed towards the door, my husband grunted to me ‘see, honey, we didn’t need anyone to come help move houses.’
I rolled my eyes as they carefully wedged it out the door and towards the stairway. But, we were saving money by doing it ourselves—so I bit my lip and kept quiet. Even if we wound up having a piece or two of slightly scraped furniture—that was still better then paying some moving company enormous fees to come out and do it for us. As long as nothing happened to my beautiful sofa.
He should never have smirked at me on the way out the door. Didn’t he know when you do something like that you’re just asking for something to go wrong? I didn’t see what happened next, but it was described by one of our neighbors on a lower floor as a ‘train wreck’.
When I first heard the noise I had wondered if someone had had a little fender bender in the parking lot. That seemed to be happening more and more frequently as more people moved into the building and it was one of the reasons we were moving. We really wanted a place where the dogs could play outside without us having to drive five miles down the road to the park.
Before I knew it, Jimmy (my friend from the lower level’s husband) came running into the apartment. “Get your keys.†He said to me. I looked at him and must have appeared a little confused, because he said “never mind, I’ll drive†and grabbed my arm and shuffled me out the door.
Thankfully, one of the other neighbors had removed the sofa from its original position before I got down the steps. They had moved it to drag my darling (know-it-all) husband from beneath it. He looked at me as he leaned across the wall all-pitiful. His leg was bleeding.
Gina (Jimmy’s wife) laughed as I walked over to the couch to inspect the damage. “Honey my freaking leg is broken†he had said. “Oh.†I replied (still looking at the couch). Jimmy and I helped him into the elevator and drove him to the hospital where they x-rayed his leg. It was, in fact, broken.
Needless to say- after the medical bills, replacing the trashed potion of the couch, and hiring the moving service to complete the move that my now immobilized husband could not finish, we did not save any money. So, here’s some advice. Listen to your wives, fellas, hire the movers.