Why I (secretly) enjoyed moving

allow me to explain

Allow me to explain the gut-wrenching process called moving.

It is a mad, mad process, my friends.

As Murphy would have it, April 30—my appointed moving day—decided to pour rain. It was therefore an ideal day to be wandering the Ghetto with large wooden pieces of furniture in hand, since my housemates and I bravely, but foolishly, decided we were strong enough. What a mistake. Moreover, I somehow convinced myself that I—with my five-foot-two, 115-pound frame—could single-handedly take on a dresser almost as tall as I was.

Needless to say, my “helpless girl” alter ego took over soon enough. I almost started breaking down behind Jock Harty, until a kind soul of a guy stopped to help me out and drive my dresser and me over to our new home.

But the trouble wasn’t over yet: as we started moving boxes up the stairs, my housemate’s elbow made a popping noise and became locked in a bent position. Best time to dislocate an elbow, really.

With less manpower, we had to come up with a more creative solution the next day. And that solution happened to take the form of two sketchy shopping carts we stole from the parking lot beside McNeill house.

They required about 15 back-and-forth trips, but they did the job. The relief of closing the door behind me, knowing there were no more moving trips to be made and no more boxes to be transferred, was simply divine.

It turns out the mayhem was worth it in the end. Never had I tasted a dinner as delicious as those pancakes we threw together in our kitchen that night. Never had I felt like a semi-Wonderwoman by observing the sheer amount of stuff that we were able to move in two days.

Plus, the kind of friendship that stems from pushing a seedy shopping cart around the Ghetto together, devising mathematical formulas to fit every piece of furniture into a microscopic porch, and eating pancakes afterwards in the chaotic mess of a student kitchen is truly unconditional and irreplaceable.

Moving: who knew it could become such an epic?


Rosel Kim can be found by following the smell of pancakes to her house.

Top five signs summer is coming

• The “university student” guilt that occupies your conscience when you get up at noon and spend the entire day surfing the Internet, playing video games, and half-watching TV while eating foods that can only generously be described as “empty calories.”

• The “find-a-job” blues that kick in about a week after exams end, when nobody seems to be hiring anymore and your resume seems strangely dull and unqualified for any job description

• A seeping urge to travel to every faraway place known to mankind—Hawaii, the Mediterranean, Africa, you name it—and a pang of jealousy when you are not one of the lucky ones who get to experience them in person.

• The dubious “where-is-my-home” dilemma that emerges as you plan to move back in with your parents for the summer, and a sharp feeling of guilt from even allowing such a dilemma into your conscience.

• An overflowing and ultimately fruitless ambition to accomplish something great—learning another language, taking up cooking, writing a novel—in the four-month void.

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