Gloria, where did you put the keys to the Uhaul?

On Wednesday, Tara (the roommate) and I moved all of our shit (pardon the expletive, but after packing, moving and unloading everything I own, I am so sick of it all that shit seemed like the most fitting description) from the old apartment to the new one (about a quarter of a mile distance.)

I am never moving again.

Seriously.

Feminism was the order of the day. At 9am I picked up the 14 foot Uhaul. Had I ever driven anything that gigantic before? No. Was I sure that I could handle it? Hell fuckin’ yeah. The older lady who worked the counter at the Uhaul place took me outside to show me some things about the truck, since this my first time. She showed me the latch contraption in the back and said, “Don’t worry about this, honey; I am sure you’re husband or boyfriend will know how it works.” I just looked at her. Lady, if I had a husband and/or boyfriend overseeing this operation, do you think he would have sent the little woman to go pick up the freakin’ Uhaul? What about my lesbian lover? Will she know how it works? I was irritated, but not daunted. Today, feminism would win out. Today, we women would prove that we do not need men to unlatch our Uhauls. Period.

I did do a great job driving the Uhaul, if I don’t mind saying so myself. By about noon I had pretty much perfected the art of backing it up into a parking space perfectly straight. I am very proud of this little accomplishment, if you can’t tell. One comment about Uhauls – the mirrors are worthless. I’m not exactly sure what they are supposed to be used for, but you can’t see anything. Eh, I never really use the mirrors anyway. But ultimately, I felt very empowered by the whole experience.

For the most part, Tara and I did the move ourselves. Our friend Jordan came over and helped us in the morning with the three or four pieces of furniture that physically could not be moved without a third person. But then, for the next few hours Tara and I worked alone, loading box after box after random piece of furniture on the U-haul. We were soldiers. We were proving that we didn’t need men. We were independent and self-reliant. We were women, hear us roar. We were fucking exhausted.

By about 2pm, we had one last load of the u-haul to unload at the new apartment. By this time, morale was low. My feet hurt (flip flops = bad moving shoes). My back hurt. The roommates were getting on each others nerves. It was a thousand degrees outside. All we had the strength to carry was a toaster here and a throw pillow there. And then – our salvation. Out of nowhere swooped in two middle-aged gentlemen from across the street. Immediately, they began picking up bookcases and boxes and filing cabinets. At this point, the feminist in me was too tired to protest. We were saved. Thank goodness for men – big, strong, strapping men who can unload the entire contents of a U-haul in less than fifteen minutes.

It was an important lesson. As much as I wish to be free from the aid of men, I have to admit that there are times when they are needed. (Moving day, when the batteries in Mr. Dependable are dead, etc.) A friend of mine once told me that there is no “battle of the sexes.” There is no war. We are all on the same team and need to learn to work together. I am not sure if I buy this touchy-feely take on gender relations, but I see his point.

As for my feminist notions, I don’t feel they were compromised at all by allowing men to rescue us in our hour of need. We put in a valiant effort and managed to do about 75% of the work on our own. 75% is totally a passing grade. A bad grade, but passing nonetheless.