Moving at 80 - What Could Go Wrong?

It all started on a Friday, Oct 24. It felt like Friday the 13th.

Because we’d installed custom shelving in five of our closets, the plan was simple: unpack those closets, move the shelves to the new apartment, and take it from there.

That was the plan. Once the movers arrived, though, they decided to be extra efficient—and started packing everything.

The fellow handling the living and dining rooms was quite thoughtful. When he saw our cabinet of wine glasses, he asked if we’d be entertaining over the weekend. We said yes, so he kindly left six glasses unpacked. Unfortunately, the message never made it to the kitchen packer, who boxed up every dish, utensil, pot, pan, and crumb of food.

So, dinner that weekend was shaping up to be a wine tasting—no plates, no forks, just glasses. And since the coffee cups were buried somewhere under three layers of bubble wrap, no morning coffee.

The crazy part? We weren’t scheduled to move until the next Tuesday. That meant four long days and nights surrounded by towers of boxes, living on takeout and paper napkins, and wondering where we might have packed our sanity.

By the time we finally moved, I was running on caffeine withdrawal, exhaustion, and a growing sense that this “simple move” had turned into an endurance sport. At one point, my step counter showed over 13,000 steps in a single day—and that was just inside the apartment. My legs were killing me, and I was on a first-name basis with my bottle of ibuprofen.

The Case of the Shrinking Apartment

Everything is just a little smaller in the new apartment. Half an inch less in the cabinets, an inch less in the drawers, and the toilet area is skinnier by two inches. My scale, neatly tucked between the toilet and the shower for decades, needed a new resting place. That’s ok, my friend said, “You aren’t supposed to keep the scale in the bathroom anyway.” What? For seven decades, I’ve kept the scale next to the shower, and like a Timex watch, it took a licking but kept on ticking

Scale (and even the bath math) too big - at least the litter box fits

How is it possible that everything in the new apartment has shrunk? Aren’t these things supposed to be standard? Apparently not. My sleek under-sink baskets from The Container Store now sit at a jaunty angle because the space is half an inch too narrow. The custom Elfa shelving had to be trimmed to squeeze into the closets. And the TV? It has to be moved every time we want something from the cabinet because it’s a 1/2 inch taller than the bottom of the door. Who knew half an inch could cause so much chaos?

Cabinets are lower - we have to move the TV to open them. To the right are the shelves that need to be trimmed to fit the cabinets

The Designer Mover

Our helpful packing-and-unpacking guy fancied himself an interior designer. He tossed anything one day past expiration—goodbye salad dressing, farewell to the half-eaten blueberry pie slice I’d been saving from breakfast. He declared my kitchen “streamlined.”Utility, however, was not in his design vocabulary. He insisted the 25-pound  Ninja Foodie, which we use frequently, looked “clunky” on a waist-high shelf and should go up top “for aesthetics.” After all, what could go wrong with two 80-year-olds hoisting 25 lb appliances over their heads?

The Makeup Mirror Misfire

Then there’s the towel bar incident. Our new bathroom setup included a towel bar where my makeup mirror used to be. The installer, trying to be “helpful,” suggested hanging the mirror above the towel bar. That was eye level for him, but above my head. At that height, I could check my roots but not my lipstick. I mentioned that I might need a ladder. He grinned. “Good idea! I’ll leave one handy.”

Vanity drawers - Atilt because they are 1" too wide for the new space

The Step-Counter Saga

I’ve walked more steps in this 1,400-square-foot apartment than I did touring Europe. Every trip from the kitchen to the bedroom feels like a half-marathon, and I’m on a first-name basis with my bottle of ibuprofen. If moving is exercise, I should have the legs of a marathon runner by now—just not the energy to use them.

The Great Disappearing Act

We’ve been in the new apartment for a week, and I’m still missing half my life. After days of redoing the closets and cabinets, we can't find our Alaska souvenir bear, the pasta maker, or the vinegar. My 60+ spice bottles need to be resorted in alphabetical order. It took us 20 minutes to find the oregano.

We're Settled (Almost)

Still, it’s not all chaos. We’re meeting new neighbors who are already proving to be gems. The lanai has turned out to be a little paradise. Our cat loves it, and honestly, so do we. We are finally enjoying the Florida weather. And we have a new, plusher carpet.

Patsy, resting after a morning of watching geckos outside the lanai

So yes, moving at our age is tough. You lose a few inches of cabinet space, a slice of blueberry pie, and maybe a bit of sanity—but you gain new stories, new friends, and a new appreciation for staying put. And a bigger bottle of ibuprofen (and yes, despite my age, I switched from Tylenol to Aleve; I needed the anti-inflammatory boost to calm my throbbing legs)

Epilogue

For those of you who are new to this blog, this was a ‘forced’ move. Our community has been on a rebuilding binge, and the building we lived in is scheduled to be demolished and replaced with a newer (but questionably better) building. You don’t even want to ask.