Too many Indians and not enough chiefs. Not usually the way that problem goes.
I accidentally got too many friends to help us move last weekend. Roomie and I just don’t have THAT much stuff. It took the two of us almost an entire day to pack it all up. But moving everything onto the truck? About 45 minutes. Maybe an hour to get it back off. In my defense, it wasn’t entirely my fault that so many people came to help. I started off with just L and Kate. I figured they pretty much had to help because they are my special crossfit buddies, and besides, we were moving into Kate’s house. She could not pretend to have plans if she really didn’t.
But then I got to thinking: we can lift weights as well as most men, but we can’t lift weights like men who lift weights. It would be good to have at least one guy, so I asked Law. Who did not give me a real answer, or any sort of answer at all, about whether he would help. I assumed this was because he didn’t want to help, although in reality, it turned out to be because I had ambushed him with the question about two minutes after he finished a workout. So he didn’t register anything I said. That’s his version of events anyway. I have a strong suspicion that he just didn’t want to help, but later got guilt tripped into it by Kate. We shall never know.
Well, I thought Law wasn’t coming, so I asked another of my wonderful man friends, Gordon, if he would come. I did not realize that this meant his girlfriend also wanted to help. I didn’t realize that L had informed her husband that he would also be helping. I do a lot of not realizing. Counting me, Roomie, and my Dad, we had nine people moving a little two-person apartment.
It was like assembling an army of polar bears to storm the henhouse. Or something. Those hens didn’t stand a chance.
Needless to say, FASTEST MOVE EVER. Unpacking was another story altogether.