On move-in day, a runway of quilted blankets formed a path between the moving truck and our new front door.

Five insanely strong men made a steady trek from truck to door like a trail of army ants, each one carrying an item three times his weight and size.

Meanwhile, my arms flail like a Dutch windmill's, sending the movers in various directions.

"Where does this go, Ma'am?" one asks while holding a Bombay chest as though it were a cereal box.

"Uh, living room," I say and flail an arm.

"And this?" another asks.

"Bedroom No. 1," I say, waving. I fire off directions, trying not to stammer as I make speed-of-light decisions.

Even though I had mapped out in my mind and on paper what pieces of furniture would go where, and even though I had thoroughly, even compulsively, labeled every bo

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