Tuesday, August 11, 2009

I'm Not 21 Anymore...

Pathetic, isn't it? Here I am, all of - uh 27 years old - no! 26! Crud! - and I'm finding that I can no longer do things I could do, say, 3 years ago.

Such as climb three flights of stairs twice in a row without muttering expletives under my breath.

Really, though, what set me going about how much my physical capabilities have changed was the arrival of a table.

Yes, a table.

The UPS man attempted to deliver it to my home Friday, but I wasn't there. Alas, I had to sign for the thing, so he couldn't just prop it up outside, dust off his hands, and consider it a job well done.

I decided that - instead of having him try to deliver it again the next day - I would simply put in an intercept request online and go pick up the table at the UPS customer support center, which happens to be in the part of Dallas where the less-classy strip clubs are. But then, is any strip club classy? Yeah, I didn't think so, either.

After driving down the street behind Baby Dolls, I arrived at the UPS place and stood in line for 15 minutes waiting to hand someone the little sticky note the UPS man left on my door. The woman brought out one box and got ready to shoo me out the door.

"Sorry, I should have four boxes," I said. "And at least one of them should be really big." The box on the counter was medium-sized, at best. The UPS lady looked at my ticket, checked her computer, and went back into the room to look for the other three packages. She found one - not even in a box, but wrapped in one of those tough plastic baggies - and then began hollering at the other employees, asking if they'd seen my packages.

Someone told her to check the weight of the missing boxes. Apparently, if they're over a certain size, they're left out on a porch. My boxes were over the magical minimum number: one of them weighed 90 lbs.

Fortunately, a nice young UPS man - a Steve Urkel look-alike if ever I saw one - helped me take my large packages out to the car. This is the same car that had a flat tire, Monday, mind you. He loaded them into the van, and I thanked him and drove off into the sunset with my loot. Okay, actually, away from the sunset, and sort of south, but you get the idea.

I had the forethought to bring a two-wheel dolly with me, so I was able to unload the BIG boxes - each of them 42" square - and to get them to my apartment complex's elevator.

But the elevator door is 36" wide. So I had to lift the boxes into the elevator.

All 130 combined pounds of them - one of which was a mere 40 pounds.

I'm not really supposed to lift anything over 20 pounds.

I am an idiot.

I managed to wrangle all of my packages into my apartment and to set up the table, iron the lovely fringed burlap tableskirt that came in the plasti-package, and one of the curtains from the medium-at-best box. Then, I decided I needed to stop or I'd die.

I am now wondering what caused my temporary lapse of sanity. Why on earth did I think that - in my medically precarious state - I was able to lift a 90 pound package? That's only 35 pounds less than I weigh! What was I thinking?

Apparently, I wasn't thinking at all. I spent most of Tuesday gritting my teeth as I sat in my desk chair, wishing I'd called in sick, and cursing both my lack of brains for even thinking about lifting the packages, along with the sense of duty that made me go to work because I had meetings instead of lying in bed.

And one of the meetings was cancelled. Neat.

1 comment:

  1. Hmmm...yes, not the brightest idea. You need to recover ASAP so we can do fun stuff this weekend!! But, if you need to lounge all weekend, we can accommodate that, too, as long as you're willing to lounge with a Vizsla. Where did you put the table? What are you putting on the table?