The Bookshelf Stayed Downstairs

April twenty-first. Easter weekend, and I spent part of it in a hallway arguing with a bookshelf.

It started the way these things always do: someone sent a message that said 'hey, tiny favor,' and I said sure, and then I showed up to discover that a solid-wood secondhand unit that looks manageable in a living room is a completely different object when you are trying to carry it up a flight of stairs with a landing that turns at exactly the wrong angle. We tried four configurations. We tried the 'pivot' maneuver, which I have now learned is a real technique and not something the characters in that show invented. Nothing worked. The bookshelf is currently living in a hallway, wedged at a slight diagonal, and it will probably be there for a while. I have made my peace with this.

The bookshelf did not move. We reached an agreement.

I keep thinking about what pottery class is doing to my arms, which is, honestly, not much yet, given that the wheel mostly just reminds me of my own limitations, but apparently hauling furniture up a narrow staircase on a Tuesday afternoon is a different kind of workout entirely. I have the evidence.

Step one: admit the bookshelf has won.

I left with a slightly sore shoulder and a container of leftover Easter cookies, which felt like the correct exchange rate for the afternoon. The bookshelf looked fine when I left. Possibly smug. I am choosing not to dwell on it.