My Moving Mishap

About four years ago, I moved out of the apartment that I shared with my sister and into a studio. It was time to live on my own, and I found a charming place three blocks from where I had been living. When it came time to move, rather than hire movers, I was able to round up a few guy friends. All I really had was a bed, a sofa, and my clothes, more or less. A dolly from the doorman, a few pairs of strong hands, and we were ready to go.

We rolled my life's worth down Third Avenue. I think we made six trips in total, and was a source of entertainment for only a few people that I ran into on the street.

On the last trip to my new place, I was in the elevator with my guy friend BW. Most of the heavy furniture had been moved; what was left were the valuables that had not made it in boxes: my pillow, my jewelry, a few outfits for work that week, linens.

In the short four flights of our elevator ride, something fell to the floor. BW heard a small crash followed by smaller sounds, maybe something rolling across the floor. He looked down. I looked down. And there, sprawled across the floor of the elevator was my pink rabbit vibrator, its batteries, and remote. Oy.