Moving is often a task I avoid at all costs. The mess of pack­ing, book­ing ele­va­tors, orga­niz­ing rides, and phys­i­cal­ly shift­ing dirty box­es around becomes a lot more com­pli­cat­ed than I care for. Being approached to help move by a close friend is a dif­fer­ent sto­ry, how­ev­er, as it becomes one of the few times that I can prove how much I’m will­ing to do for them.

It thus becomes a rather gal­va­niz­ing scene to arrive with a par­ty of friends at a doorstep, ready to help bring some­one else into anoth­er phase in their life. This week­end was no excep­tion, when help­ing Pat and Jen set­tle into their new place, a new­ly built four bed­room house out in the west end. Through most of last week, Pat and Jen had already moved the small items them­selves, so the only things that were left were the bulky fur­ni­ture. There were only eight of us, but we were fin­ished before we knew it.

Pat and Jen paid us in beer, piz­za, and wings, but giv­en the fact that they had already done most of the work, we hard­ly deserved it. The rest of the day was spent play­ing Mario Power Tennis, Donky Konga, and table ten­nis.

Helping them mov­ing was a reminder of how we’re all grow­ing up. Getting mar­ried, get­ting old.

I once asked Darren, the only oth­er male cousin with whom I share a Generation name, whether he thought we’d end up like our fathers, two broth­ers who also share their own. Our fathers who are moody, wast­ed old men who work too hard, and don’t get enough sleep. Before we real­ized it though, we had already turned into them, sur­viv­ing the days on most­ly rest­less sleep.

Look at us now. Pat and Jen are engaged, start­ing their fam­i­ly here. Aaron and Karen are one block away.

And the cou­ples take home left­overs the way the par­ents do at all the Christmas par­ties dur­ing the hol­i­days.