It’s the last flight that kills you. The third flight of stairs to get the the 4th floor of my apartment. But I didn’t know that when I decided to move myself into my apartment.
I had just finished my second year of college. I was moving out of the luxurious elevator NYU apartment building, to the 4th floor of a walkup on the border of the UES and Harlem. While I’d considered hiring movers, and half heartedly tried, it was never something I seriously considered.
Especially after my sister scheduled her flight to New York right around the time that I would be moving in. What are sisters for, if not to move you into your apartment? I thought. It’s not like she was flying 3,000 miles to relax in NY, and see the sights. Of course she could help me move. It wouldn’t be that bad. Ha.
The misery began when she entered my apartment, to find a studio that would be a perfect candidate for Hoarders. We had to pack and deep clean the place. She determined that I should probably pack the place. She would clean. She spent 2 hours cleaning. She scrubbed the kitchen, the floors and the walls of this place. She packed up my kitchen.
We spent hours putting everything in brown paper bags. Then we loaded up with 4 paper bags, each and began the journey. We got in a cab. We sat in the cab for 25 minutes, going from 2nd street to the mid 90’s. We got out of the cab. We climbed lethal the stairs. We unloaded the bags. We collapsed on my bed. We went back downtown. We repeated this 7 times.
We are two years out from me accidentally abusing my sister. I now fully acknowledge how terrible a sister that made me. I swear, I didn’t think it would be so hard. I was 20. I was naive.
So please accept my apology, dear sister. I’m sorry Kid. I’m sorry I put you through that hell. I’m sorry that you didn’t see Manhattan on that trip. I love you. Hopefully, I’ve made up for it over the years.