This weekend was pretty intense. I moved upstairs to a new apartment, and all went well. That is, until it came time to organize the records (yes, as in the vinyl records I collect). My mother was helping me by standing on a step stool and I was handing her each record wiped down for her to shelve (we had a nice little system going). Then I got bored and decided to lift the entire box of records for her to reach easily; and that was the beginning of the end.

What followed was a two-pronged reaction: first was the pain that showed its ugly head, and quickly. Then came the guilt from my mother – which lasted nearly as long as the pain itself – asking me why I had to lift the heavy box ‘all by myself’. I cringe at the thought of what that felt like. The kind of pain that shuts your whole system down – and hurts all over, even though it is coming from one place.

“I don’t know” I tried to explain. Maybe because I got bored handing each record up to her; and a box of records shouldn’t be such a hard thing to lift. I guess I was wrong.

One thing is for sure: I wasn’t cut out to be a mover. Thank goodness we weren’t moving a piano.