I am trying to pack up my room at school, which would be a
no-brainer under normal conditions. I
usually pack boxes and pile them onto the wide windowsills by climbing up onto
various pieces of furniture (usually student desks). It's a sport I have perfected by moving my
classroom every year or two since I first arrived at this school.
When I start ascending the clumsily positioned make-shift
ladders, I usually do it during a planning period or a lunch break or after
school in case the contraptions should collapse and I need medical
attention. (Think: "Help, I've fallen … and I can't get
up!") Honestly, this has almost
happened several times when chairs have folded on me, desks have shifted under
me, or I take an errant step by forgetting which piece of furniture I'm on and
which way I've turned it to access the sills.
I have bruised myself, twisted myself, cracked myself, and
flattened myself in these awkward and improvised attempts to pack up the
hundreds and hundreds of reading books and text books that I haul from one
school year into the next. I have also
dropped fully-packed boxes onto my bare feet.
Bare feet are often better for gripping than my work shoes, which favor
fashion over function much of the time.
In short, packing up my room is not only an arduous process,
it makes me look like a total fool.
Today I discover just how difficult this process is going to
be this June as I pull the shades high and start lifting the boxes up to the
sills. I realize the one factor that I
took out of the "Don't Look Like a Complete Ass" process of the whole
packing-up routine: The Construction
Workers.
I have six windows in my room. Three of these windows are at stomach level,
are about one-by-two feet each, and are cloudy plexi-glass. The other three of these windows are giant
see-through screens of voyeurism, about seven-by-seven feet, clear glass, and
absolutely spotless from inside to outside.
No need to smile and pose for Candid Camera; apparently I am on Candid
Camera every day already. The workers,
who stand as close as a foot from my windows, will have the pleasure of
watching me climb Furniture Mountain, stake my flag, and possibly suffer the
same fate as George Mallory did on Everest.
I refrain from climbing on chairs or desks today and load
eight boxes of reading books onto the far window ledge. Thankfully I still have some strength and
skills left from a few of the ridiculous (for me at my age) sporting endeavors
I have entertained over the years -- cardio-kickboxing, weight training, and
judo -- so I was able to lift the boxes up and over my head when piling on the
second level against the glass.
Look, I have nothing against the workers. After all, their port-a-potty was so close
for a while that I think I got to know them just a little too well. But having them see me, even if accidentally,
climbing barefoot across Dr. Seuss-like apparatuses with armloads full of
packed school materials might not be beneficial to any of us. I'll feel stupid, and they'll be horrified by
my unathletic and totally disgraceful displays of uncoordination.
The good news, though, is that they'll all not only see me
crash and burn, but they'll probably hear it, as well.
This is a positive thing.
You see, when I start weakly yelling, "Help … I've
fallen … and I'm buried under boxes and can't get up," there will be a
whole tag team of workers to call it in.
Of course, they'll have to stop laughing first, but I can
take it. I consider it port-a-potty
payback for all the times I caught their eyes staring longingly at the extra
roll of toilet paper I keep on the shelf for the kids' noses during allergy
season. Perhaps we can barter a trade --
a few squares of TP for them not posting videos of my theatrics online.
Seems like a fair trade to me.
