Originally published in The Clifton Courier, October 25, 2017

Over the weekend* I moved and it taught me a lot about myself.

* As in, last weekend because of the lag. 

And no, I didn’t move back to Queensland – although that’s the dream – but to a beachside neighbourhood. My idea is that being being closer to the ocean will not only improve my outlook, but magically transform me into one of those fit, toned people you see jogging along the beach who can crack walnuts with their perky, perky glutes. I’m also reasoning that the sea air will mean I’m inhaling less toxic airborne Sydney soot and will hopefully result in a thinner layer of filth coating my lungs.*

* The concerning air quality is in my top five things to complain about Sydney… out of a list of about 547. 

And while I’m yet to confirm the place is definitely not haunted*, I’m feeling like this was a good move.

* Although I’m very wary of keeping mirrors facing away from me when I switch the lights off. I wear and eye mask too, which helps. It’s not so much that I’m worried about the threat of what the paranormal might do to someone who sings as many Christmas carols as I do moving into their space, it’s more that I don’t want to see them. I’d prefer to be oblivious, even consciously so, if I have to.

My room is larger. I’ve got somewhere to line up my totally-not-creepy Harry Potter figurines. If you hold your head juuuuuust right, you can see the ocean from the lounge room.

But the journey to reach this point wasn’t so cruisey.

And by “here” I mean on my newly-built Ikea flat pack bed.

Yep, I finally lashed out. After going through my entire life not paying for a bed or a mattress I have finally invested in a raised sleeping platform of my very own.

And I have to say, I learned a lot about myself in the process.

For one thing, I had no idea how stubborn I was until the weekend.

The instructions included with the bed told me I’d need a hammer, a Phillips screwdriver and a second person to turn the pile of metal into a functional piece of furniture.

And instead of accepting the wisdom of the Swedish furniture gods, I dismissed it. Even though I had access to a hammer, multiple screwdrivers and two helpful new housemates.

I wanted to prove something. And that something was that I could put a flat pack together without help from anyone else using just my own two hands and the sheer power of my pig-headedness. What good comes from proving something like this?

Perhaps it was my way of proving to myself that Sydney hadn’t softened me, the straight-talking, would-kill-a-sheep-if-it-came-down-to-it country girl I pretend to be after two beers. I’m someone who can change her tyre herself thank you very much. I’m someone who will fix a broken blind with a hair tie and duct tape her bumper bar back on to her car. I can do things. I guess I like to think of myself as an industrial, sightly bogan kind of Beyoncé.

So a simple flat pack should be a piece of cake (in case you’re wondering, carrot cake with cream cheese icing is my current fave).

And somehow, without a single swear word I managed to pull it off. The hammer would have been overkill. The screwdriver wasn’t really necessary. And who needs living, breathing humans when you have two boxes the perfect size for holding things up?! A dingbat, that’s who.

I was amazed at how much this boosted my self-esteem (which was kind of low considering I’d stuck my hand in a toilet that morning and smelled awful from moving all day).

The second thing I learned is that I’m an intolerant, irritable person. As I crawled under the covers and nestled into a sleeping position, I was ready for a blissful night’s slumber. But when I moved and heard a faint squeak. I shifted around and there was another squeak.

With each movement a small but audible sound came from somewhere in the framework of my totes-impeccably-constructed bed and my anger grew. Each sound ground my soul just that little bit more, like a knee with the thinnest layer of cartilage.

It was unbearable.

But the third thing I learned about myself is that I can also be lazy. Because it’s been more than 24 hours and I have done nothing to fix the problem.

* Yeah, this baby’s still squeaking and it’s been a fortnight. Maybe this weekend I’ll do something about it. But then again, maybe I won’t.