Like a lot of people these days, I’ve spent the last year trying to lose a few pounds.
More walking.
Better food choices.
A little help from modern medicine.
Progress has been slow but steady.
Apparently, our furniture has been on a completely different program.
As Rob and I prepare to move back to Las Vegas, our latest moving estimate suggested our household goods had somehow gained thousands of pounds while living in Seattle.
This was surprising.
Mostly because we’re leaving with significantly less furniture than we arrived with.
One couch isn’t making the trip.
A desk isn’t making the trip.
Several mattresses have already retired from active duty.
In fact, one mattress developed sea legs and is now on its way to Alaska
.
I’m not making that up.
A fisherman from Deadliest Catch bought it for the captain’s quarters on his boat.
That was my Purple Mattress phase.
If you’ve ever priced a Purple Mattress, you know it wasn’t exactly my bargain-shopping phase.
Somewhere in the North Pacific, a mattress that once lived in West Seattle is now living a far more adventurous life than I am.
We still have one left, by the way.
Last I checked, it was listed on Facebook Marketplace.
Which brings me to my husband’s newest hobby.
Facebook Marketplace.
At first, he sold a chair.
Then a lamp.
Then a side table.
Then another chair.
At some point, I stopped thinking of it as downsizing and started thinking of it as a corporate liquidation event.
Every morning now begins with a status report.
“Did the guy coming for the mirror ever show up?”
“Did somebody message about the sofa?”
“The lady buying the table says she’ll be here in thirty minutes.”
Spoiler alert.
They are never there in thirty minutes.
Our driveway has become a revolving door of pickup trucks, SUVs, and people who communicate almost entirely through three words.
“Is this available?”
Meanwhile, furniture continues to leave the house.
Which makes the weight gain even more impressive.
Now, this isn’t our first move.
In fact, my furniture officially has more frequent flyer miles than I do.
After you’ve moved across state lines a few times, you develop a rough sense of what your life weighs.
Not philosophically.
Literally.
You know your item count.
You know your cubic feet.
You know roughly what the shipment should weigh.
So when I saw that we supposedly had fewer items than a previous move but substantially more weight, my curiosity kicked in.
The deeper I looked, the more interesting it became.
A hallway closet with six jackets somehow translated into multiple wardrobe boxes.
A few exercise weights became an entire gym category.
An adjustable bed with four screw-in legs received special handling.
A small marble slab was scheduled for treatment normally reserved for priceless artifacts.
Meanwhile, Rob was conducting what appeared to be the largest private furniture liquidation in the Pacific Northwest.
To be fair, moving companies have a difficult job.
They’re estimating.
Estimating means making assumptions.
And assumptions are useful until they meet reality.
Reality is opening a closet and counting the jackets.
Reality is remembering that the couch was sold.
Reality is realizing the mattress is on a fishing boat headed to Alaska.
Reality is asking whether something actually needs a specialty charge or whether it’s simply part of the normal move.
One of the more interesting lessons was learning that box count and weight are not the same thing.
The kitchen weighs what the kitchen weighs.
The dishes weigh what the dishes weigh.
Whether they’re packed in four boxes or twenty boxes, the dishes themselves don’t gain weight.
The stuff is the stuff.
The paperwork said one thing.
The living room said another.
Every time we asked another question, the estimate became a little more accurate.
Every time we opened another closet, the shipment got a little lighter.
In the end, this wasn’t really a story about movers.
It’s a story about assumptions.
The older I get, the more I realize that patience is a financial skill.
Not anger.
Not confrontation.
Patience.
Ask another question.
Read another page.
Open another closet.
Whether you’re moving, remodeling, buying a car, or signing a contract, assumptions have a funny way of becoming facts if nobody challenges them.
And if you’re shopping for mattress bags, spend the extra money and buy the ones with handles.
Trust me.
Someday you’ll be standing in your yard filling them with leaves and wondering why anyone would buy the other kind.
Experience doesn’t always make life easier.
Sometimes it simply teaches you which questions to ask.
And after your third interstate move, you develop a surprisingly accurate sense of what your life weighs
.
