There is no end to my shamelessness

I woke up knowing today would be the kind of day when you’re trying to get a sticker off without leaving the residue behind, but you make more of a mess than just leaving the sticker on would’ve… Oddly enough, it ended that way, but life in between was definitely jazz-hand worthy.

When I wake up I typically make a cup of tea (New Year’s resolution), check my phone for emails and texts since no one else sleeps in like the unemployed, and see what new jobs are posted before showering and tackling the game plan pseudo-roomie and I conjured up the night before. (I’m going to miss that!) This morning my first email indicated the pub set I ordered would be arriving today via UPS as opposed to tomorrow: “updated delivery date.” In any circumstance in my past I’d be so thrilled a delivery was arriving early–ecstatic if I were anticipating the package as highly as I’ve anticipated this pub set. But living in New York City brings circumstances suburbians aren’t accustomed to, like flights of stairs. A table and two chairs presumably make for a big package and I have done more lifting this week than my girly muscles can take. The thought of having to track this pub set down at a post office and transport it home with my unequipped body frame and frozen funds as my lone resources woke me up faster than any cup of coffee would’ve. I forfeited shaving my legs to avoid this potential scenario.

I frantically showered and dressed faster than anyone who knows me would believe and scurried (as humbling as that is) to the subway. On my frantic quickstep home I came upon my worst fear: that all-too-familiar brown truck. As I approached, pace slowing, I waited for the logo…and inevitably it came into focus…two blocks past my apartment. I looked for the driver, circled the truck, and found him in the back all the way inside. I’d love to say I swallowed my pride, but the ever-increasing likelihood I’d be dragging boxes bigger than myself down the streets of New York (after all the humiliating things I’d done leading up to this moment) took a front seat. As I texted ex boyfriend, “I straight up asked him.”

Me: Have you been by [insert my address] yet?

UPS guy: Which building?

Me: [insert address of building]

UPS guy: Oh, 5A?

Me: Yeah!

UPS guy: Target or Bed, Bath and Beyond or something?

Me: Yes! (He is good!)

UPS guy: Oh no, you’ve got a long time. A long time. I have a code to that building anyway, you don’t have to be there.

Me: (Great, of course) Do you have a time frame?

UPS guy: (Why is she holding me hostage in my truck?) No…later. I’ll leave it if you’re not there.

Me: Leave it?? You mean, bring it up? You’ll bring it up right?

UPS guy: [insert look directed at me like I’m crazy]

Me: Please…?

UPS guy: It’s a big box…

Me: That’s why I’m asking…

I calmly walked the rest of the way home, burden lifted by Mr. Memorizes Entire Inventory, but slightly annoyed by my unnecessary frenzy. As is my nature worrying about one thing led to worrying about everything and I had already had my morning, “How has no one so much as called for an interview?” routine. I sat on the sofa bed I was so proud to have assembled yesterday and began a new worry concerning how firm the mattress would be for guests. To distract my worrisome brain I checked my email and to my dismay I had an offer for an interview. Not just any interview, a travel magazine interview. One of the jazz hands-inducing openings I found last week. So I took the high road and decided I’ll do what I do almost as often as I worry: get my hopes up (followed by immersing myself in their website, of course).

In celebration, I allowed myself a long-awaited trip to Target. Long story short: I purchased more than I could carry as always, and went to the Bronx by myself, as never before. I got only what I needed and still could barely lift all the bags. I stumbled all the way to the subway with a minimum of 10 black taxis offering a ride, then swiped my card and couldn’t get through the turnstile with the bulkiness of the bags. I had to go back up the stairs and across the street to the other entrance, because that was the last ride on my card. I hastily purchased a new card, swiped, then couldn’t lift the bags over the railing. As five policeman watched, clearly judging me, but not offering to help. I asked the attendant if she could let me in. Thankfully, she did, and I made it to a bench right as the bags began to tear. I miraculously rearranged in a way that preserved my treasured finds all the way home, while the weary bags tore the skin off my arms. If you have a mental image, add a shower rod sticking out the back and my sweaty bangs in my face for the full effect.

I managed to get the bags inside and put everything away. I arranged my bathroom, hung all of my clothes in the closet, washed some of the dishes and organized them on shelves. All the while I maintained cardboard, glass, and trash piles after the packet of threatening letters from the property owner that my realtor provided in a welcome packet. I’ve found that moving in takes time, a lot of energy, and sweat–it’s really ideal to do so while unemployed. I’m embarrassed by how much time I devoted to scratching every sticker off every item in IKEA’s kitchen-in-a-box only to find warm water really gets the residue right off. (Did I not learn anything domestic at Good Housekeeping?) I wrapped up what I could for the day, and thought about how nice it’ll be to fully decorate this weekend and be done with it. Then I thought, where is that pub set?

7:43 p.m. [Knock at the door]

Me: You came!

UPS guy: Told you I would…

Me: And you brought it up!

UPS guy: You made me.


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