I was once lucky enough to be moved by professionals. It was the most luxurious day of my adult life. They swept in, packed everything, loaded everything, transported everything, unloaded everything, unpacked everything. They did the sweating. They did the hauling. They did the cursing. I didn’t do a thing. I didn’t pull the glasses from the shelves and wrap each one individually. I didn’t go to the grocery store and beg for boxes. I didn’t lug around armoires and desks and couches with friends and then smile, shrug, and say, “Oh, that’s all right,” when we banged into doorways. All I did was sit back and hope they didn’t also pack away our newborn.
And yet I still hated moving.
It is an arduous, time-consuming, and emotionally draining hell. Inevitably, things get lost. Things get broken. Things get left behind.
I can’t believe we, as a nation, don’t have a special presidential moving crew. I just hope in all the moving mayhem the soon-to-be most powerful man on the planet didn’t forget to fill out his change of address form.