I was thinking yesterday, moving out of your home can be like a root canal gone bad.
The pain seems to go on forever.
My back was finally complaining this week after 23 days of urban camping.
A.K.A., sleeping on the floor because my bed and the rest of the furniture have been in storage.
And my cold fingers and ears chimed in as the winter gear has been resting along side it.
I’ve learned coordinating with multiple moving partners can cause a major relapse on bad habits like biting your nails and avoiding reality.
At least it has for me.
And repeated phone calls to straighten out double billings in wrong names and wrong languages haven’t helped any.
Yet with the first frost coming I had to at least try and make those calls again to get my belongings back this week.
But all now seemed aligned, and I had my delivery perfectly scheduled for yesterday morning when I’d have a few hours off from work.
Or at least thought all was perfect until I discovered my work schedule had changed.
So I called in my daughter Nicole from the field to pinch hit.
Knowing I’d be unreachable at work, I left her my cell phone so she could triage the inevitable confusion and emergency issues with my mover and storage folks.
I kept biting my long nails shorter all morning, wondering how it was going.
Finally, I was free to call Nicole from a break room phone right before noon.
There was no answer.
Trying again and again, I reached her on the fifth attempt as she pulled into a gas station on her way home.
“All is well,” Nicole proclaimed.
But I remained skeptical.
There just had to be a snag some where.
Isn’t there always one?
Walking gingerly into my kitchen after work, I first picked up my cell phone on the counter to check for my missed calls.
And I found some.
In fact, a lot of them.
There were multiple missed calls from the same number but no voice mail.
“Now what?” I mumbled.
Problems with the credit card for the mover?
Or is it the gas company again, I wondered.
Frustrated, I glanced up as I entered a very peaceful living room on the way to the back bedroom.
I stopped in my tracks.
There really was furniture, including a bed, off in the distance.
My daughter had even decorated the place.
And she did so beautifully.
I saw my terrier, Tuck, back napping in his favorite spot on the black sofa.
And my beloved cozy quilt, nestled next to my old reading chair.
I took a long deep breath, then looked again at the phone in my hand, studying the mysterious number for those missed calls.
And I laughed, finally recognizing the number.
“Hey, Tuck,” I said. “That was just crazy me making all those calls from work to my own cell phone.
At that point, I dove into my bed for a very long nap.
And so did Tuck, right at the foot of it, immediately snoring away like always.
It seems we are finally at home.
And as for that pain, the first nap in my own bed was just the perfect Novocain.