So I guess it can be safely concluded by one and all that I am not the kind of girl who keeps my word. I like to talk big. But I am glad that my marathon even reached 8 days. That's generally more than most things which have caught my attention or devotion. So I guess this definitely is a first.
Today as I sit to type this, I have wood splinters in every finger of mine, grazed skin on knees and elbows, black and blue in more than 4 places on myself, nail wounds on my toes, a back I can barely manage to sit upright with and a hand I can hardly move. As much as I would love to claim that I had been to fight for a noble cause, the truth is, I was just simply setting up a house.
The ordeal began last Friday when I stepped into IKEA to buy furniture for my new place. With a list as long as the tresses of Rapunzel, when I reached the self serve floor of IKEA, for a complete ten minutes I stood in the middle of the floor completely helpless and lost. The first box I was supposed to have in my cart was a freaking 56 lbs crate which apparently could be transformed to my bed frame. After much struggling and tugging, I managed to have it sit in the push along cart I had picked up. Finally 2 hours later, I had 4 carts of boxes, a sprained hand and a bump on my forehead where my supposed to have been bookshelf had come tumbling down.
Without even trying to figure out if I wanted to fit them in my car, I simply walked over to the home delivery section and had them send it over.
The fun began on Saturday when I started to unpack each box and assemble them. I had 13 in total. I knew it was going to be a long long week. So I set my mobile at it's loudest and started my work. This was the first time in my life I was holding a screwdriver or a hammer (I guess India literally pampers us when it comes to any kind of manual work !). The first couple of hammer hits, as you might have already guessed, was correctly aimed on my unsuspecting left hand. Even a week later, it's still blue. And my bookshelf still has the dent in it !
I spent hours drilling in nails and trying to hold the shelves in place. I had most of the heavy pieces falling on me every time I moved them around. I lost count of the number of times I had the joints hit my head and the shelves I broke. I didn't bother to wipe the tear stained marks on my completed assemblies. At-least not yet.
Except for one box, every other instruction leaflet in the other boxes clearly indicated the sign to illustrate that this work should not be done by one person.
But hey, I guess I was just out to prove them wrong.
Anyways, one week later, as I sit and look around my new home (The theme was sweet and simple), I feel an overwhelming sense of appreciation for myself. I have never felt so proud ever before. As terrified as I am that the sofa might tumble down if I sit on it or that the bed might crack if I try lying down or that the chair might just give away (because I know exactly what and how it is being held in place and who put it there !) I cannot stop feeling this joy in coming back home every day. To my home. A place I literally built in piece by piece. On my own.
A new place to have new beginnings probably. Or to completely end any old ones.
The place is now a reminder to me that maybe life doesn't have to be so bleak after all. And that I am not a total failure in getting back up and starting again. Maybe there is hope for me after all.
And who says you need to be with somebody to be happy. I guess I was too hasty in getting the queen sized cot.