Yesterday, I assembled a credenza.
It arrived in two boxes, that were so heavy that even with a cart, I could not handle getting them up to my apartment. Everyone in sight of this (I literally could not budge either box an inch) –everyone nearby offered to help me. Out of habit, I said no. I was fine.
They all insisted. Which was surprising and effective. I backed off and accepted.
There was no way I could do this alone.
The two boxes of ridiculously heavy credenza were delivered to my door in the afternoon. Later on, I dragged them in, cut the tape, pulled out the instructions, and my eyes glazed over. The diagrams drained life out of every cell in my body. There was no way I could do this. There were more parts than I expected, especially the small ones.
I wasn't expecting to have to think.
For some reason, or no reason, instead of stopping there, I kept going. Repeatedly ignoring that each frame of instructions was exhausting. I had something on tv in the background. That helped with momentum. Any voice other than my reactions and my expectations was helpful.
It took a while.
I didn't look at the clock.
I repeatedly checked ahead to see how much further there was to go. To see if it was going to get easier. Each time I did, my eyes would glaze over. And for some reason, I kept circling back to the frame I was on.
It wasn't until I was sliding the doors – not sure if I had them in right, but liking that they rolled – it wasn't until then that I realized that I had assembled a credenza.
I'm still not really sure how this got done.
I think that happens a lot.