I put on my big girl britches on moving day.

Embracing my nervousness, I hopped into my Honda Fit and drove over to pick up the moving truck. I’d planned nearly everything except the route to get the truck to the apartment complex. I took the scenic route to the complex since that behemoth couldn’t make a U-turn.

My biggest reward was backing that monstrosity into a parking space.

Added bonus: the adjacent parking spaces were empty as well. Not that I needed the extra room. Made me feel better though.

No moving job’s complete without at least one friend.

Technically, I hired him months prior to the move. I’ve always been an organized person, but this particular move, partly because it was during a pandemic and partly because I was being priced out, seemed extra stressful. I’d started packing a little every day, beginning on March 1st just to keep the anxiety at bay. When the official day arrived, I’d already taken four Honda Fit loads of stuff over to the new place. The rest conveniently packed away in the truck.

One of the benefits of the new place was a wonderful fur baby, Buddy.

“Baby” was more a term of endearment since this little ol’ man is 13. Still energetic and curious, but without all the extra puppy energy. We met months prior to me moving in. He immediately took to me.

Moving day was a flurry of activity.

As the day progressed, I knew the next time I moved, I’d hire at least two friends to do all the heavy lifting. I’d done that years ago when I’d first moved back to the States and had more money saved under my belt. As a matter of fact, the move itself isn’t what cost the most. The overlap in rent between the old place and the new place turned out to be the biggest expense.

I was dog tired at the end of the day.

Down to the bone. Even before sunset, all I wanted to do was unpack enough to take a shower then eat. In that order because once I sat down to eat and drink, there was no getting up to do much else.

Everything took much longer, so it seemed.

I went to a recommended location of my usual grocery store. That place was so “sexy,” I felt like Pigpen walking around there. Nonetheless, all the employees greeted me as if my deodorant hadn’t expired. At one point, I chose a checkout line since, with my usual luck, any line I entered would turn into the slowest one. Yet, one employee spoke into a walkie-talkie to another to find me a shorter line and then directed me to that line. As if I didn’t stink.

I was so excited to shower, eat then sleep.

I had everything except the decorations unpacked by the time I logged onto work on Monday. Somehow, unpacking all the dizzying array of accumulated emails in my absence would take much longer.

Talk about timing. I’d just put the last item into my shopping cart when an urgent announcement came over the PA system. A tornado watch. The grocery store asked us to leave our carts, and report to the back.

I joined other customers and employees in the walk-in dairy freezer, behind the milk case.

Normally cold-natured, I credited my irritation for keeping me warm. For the first time, being pissed off worked in my favor since I didn’t have a coat or jacket. Another thing that kept me warm was fuming about whether anyone was taking things out of my basket.

Even though we sheltered in the diary freezer for over an hour, I remained standing rather than sit on an empty milk crate.

Milk crates are better suited for holding milk and other inanimate objects.

Contrary to popular belief, a well-rounded butt like mine doesn’t render uncomfortable things more comfortable to sit on.

By the time I exited the freezer, paid for my groceries (which were still all there!) and went outside, the sky was a vibrant, crisp blue. Unbelievable.

We don’t normally get tornadoes in Austin, so I thought my sheltering among the milks (which can be from a mammal, a nut or legume) would be my only interesting story for the week.

Three days later, my usual African dance practice, due to a scheduling conflict, had to be held outside rather than in our usual trapezoidal-shaped dance studio. After surveying the surroundings, our choreographer asked if we could dance in the drained swimming pool.

Unlike synchronized swimming, we danced in the pool without water. Normally, African dance is performed barefoot, but only a few dancers chose to do that inside the pool. No space is perfect, but despite the intentional incline, the cracks and rocks, I loved dancing maskless in the fresh air. Here’s the thing: I danced with my mouth wide open as if I were trying to breath through a mask while dancing. Once I realized what I was doing, I copped a more attractive “dance smile.”

See if you can spot the change in this “summarized” version of our practice below.

A soulful dancer graced the stage, opening the first in- real-life poetry reading I’d attended since the pandemic had begun.

I had invited a friend, who had been a dedicated member of the Austin Writers Roulette, to join me. We used to attend such events individually with writing material in hand and laugh when we’d see each other from across the way. Now we check in with one another to see if we’re attending the same event.

Years ago, attending such an event didn’t warrant clearing so many extraordinary hurdles other than having the time and energy to go. And yet, for this event, I wouldn’t have attended had I not been double vaxxed, and boosted. Not to mention the night was clear and beautiful, so I didn’t have to cancel due to icy or flooded roads.

Next arrived the Slam Poetry Queen herself.

She filled us with her limitless energy as she emoted each poem, which punctuated her narratives with seamless integration.

The poem that resonated with me the most was about pockets. All the angst I’d felt toward the fashion industry for neglecting to make the vast majority of women’s clothing with pockets versus men’s clothing bubbled to the surface. Men’s nightwear has pockets. Even their underwear has pockets for their dicks.

As a matter of fact, the fancy secondhand jacket that I’d worn to the event had an inside pocket that I’d sewn because fuck them for not having one there in the first place.

That was part of a phase I’d gone through where a few jackets gained inside pockets and several pants had their pitiful shallow pockets deepened.

A few of the deepened pockets need to be reinforced because frequent wearing and washing have worn holes at the seams. I don’t attach superstition to the fact that money can slip through those holey pockets because I know that’s not where my money went.

Nothing as simple as that. This pandemic ripped away the economic illusion of my gig survival. I’ve landed a straight up full-time job with several production metrics, an hourly wage, benefits and praising the lord that progressive liberals before me negotiated a 40-hour work week along with the concept of the weekend.

Those pockets still have holes in them. My money’s all digital now.