Moving is not always a pain in the butt |

Moving is not always a pain in the butt

Roger Marolt
Cluster Phobic
Roger Marolt

So, you don’t think God has a sense of humor? I had a rough week, and I’d kind of forgotten he does. I’d actually kind of forgotten that anyone does. Things were so rough that I didn’t even find myself funny, and when you don’t think you are funny yourself, there sure isn’t anyone else on the planet who you are going to think is.

Our landlord sold the building my office had been in for the past 20 years. I could blame him, and I could blame the outfit that bought it from him. I could even blame myself a little, too. “Responsibility for naivety,” that’s my new motto.

The old landlord was partially to blame because he let greed get the best of him. The new landlord was partially to blame because he let greed get the best of him. I am partially to blame because it had been so long since I had moved anywhere that I completely underestimated the impact of the undertaking.

The new landlord invited us to stay until he could implement his new “retail concept.” It was a month-to-month deal, which was really no deal at all for us. We saw it was an opportunity for the landlord to keep us paying him rent until he could get his crap together.

At any rate, an opportunity for a good space came up, and we decided to just rip the Band-Aid off and move immediately. By “immediately,” I don’t mean next month. By “immediately” I meant over the upcoming weekend. I gave myself exactly three days to prepare for the move and two more to accomplish it.

I will spare you the details because presumably I am the only fool on Earth who forgot how awful moving is and all of you know exactly how loathsome it is. Suffice it to say that by week’s end I was stressed, depressed, frustrated, disoriented and exhausted.

It was decided for me that I needed to get away deep into the mountains for the weekend to break my funk. “I hate moving!” I declared loudly, leaving the office Friday afternoon, as the door, which swings the opposite direction of my old office door, hit me in the rear end.

Sure, it was kind of late by the time we loaded the car, and yes, it was pouring down rain, but the dose of decompression had been prescribed, and I needed to be in control of something. We were going, hell or higher water!

Wouldn’t you know it, an hour and a half later, completely out of cellphone range and 10 miles from civilization, we got a flat. Oh well — I lay down in the mud, and in a half hour the spare was on and there was an exclamation point on the adventure. All OK!

Well, not more than 10 minutes later, more completely out of cell range and 101/4 miles away from civilization, we slid off another sharp rock in the slippery mud and sliced another tire. Now we were up Crap Creek, which had overflowed its banks with the torrential downpour and was flowing down the jeep road in the middle of which my vehicle was stalled.

I got out and surveyed the disaster. I kid you not here. The first words that popped into my head were very clear: “You are not moving now.”

Some would say those words were a silly figment of my tired imagination, but the thunder booming close overhead sounded too much like laughter for me to take that as the answer.

We took what we needed from the car and hiked the rest of the way to the cabin and got to bed well after midnight. Once there, I hatched all kinds of plans for self-rescue the rest of the fitful night.

The next morning I was able to borrow a topless, doorless Jeep with a “Trump. Make America Great Again” sticker plastered prominently on the windshield. On my way down, I kid you not, a driver coming up the swampy road saw the sticker, swerved toward me as they accelerated and doused me with a wave of mud-puddle byproduct. It was humbling to realize that my fellow Democrats can be judgmental and super-mean, too.

I’m glad to report that God doesn’t take a joke too far, though. In the end he let me fix the stranded vehicle and appear like the hero to my family. The only problem is that I had to go back to work in my new office the next day.

Roger Marolt has never had a flat tire in the backcountry in many decades of exploring there. He was due. Email

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