Since I left home for college, I’ve moved 13 times. I’d pay money not to do it again.

Among those 13, some were paid military moves and some were paid company moves. The worst, of course, were just us, tugging, lugging, and schlepping until we got it all there. Then there’s the mess with the U-Haul, whether it’s a tow-behind or the bigger U-Drive-and-Pray truck. And hope there’s a chiropractor in the new town.

Those paid moves spoiled me. The first time I was lucky enough to qualify for one, it was a cross-country move. The Navy planner arrived weeks before to determine how many boxes, how much packing time, and how many square feet our household would occupy on the giant moving van. He handed me a clipboard with so many forms, permissions, and legal gobbledy-gook that I just kept signing, hoping I wasn’t giving away my first-born child. Luckily for me, he educated me on the principles of Moving 101.

“Separate the clothes you will be taking with you, and we’ll pack the rest. We do not take paint, aerosol cans, alcohol, fresh food or shoe polish. You take those yourself. You won’t have to do anything except empty your refrigerator and wastebaskets.” We laughed, but he said, “I’m serious. If you don’t empty your wastebaskets, the packers will pack your trash.” Five years later, his words rang true.

That time, we had a company move with packers. I thought I’d emptied all the rubbish, but I missed a wastebasket in our bedroom. As we unpacked at the next house, I was about to dump the packing paper out of the unearthed wastebasket when I noticed it was actually a taped package. After unwrapping three layers of sturdy paper, I was stunned to find a broken hair clip, a used band-aid and a bent false eyelash. Oh, so that’s where that went.

I think the worst move was from Cambridge, Massachusetts to Connecticut. We were leaving an urban, fourth-floor walk-up apartment for a small house in the ‘burbs. The big semi arrived on our one-way street at 8 a.m., just as my husband was leaving to run a bunch of errands. The Cambridge powers-that-be somehow missed the order to block off parking the night before, so the enormous van was double-parked.

I was on the fourth floor trying to communicate with the three Russian movers. The only English speaker was the driver – down four flights. I ran down, and learned that they had decided to rig four large pieces out the front window rather than struggle them down four flights. Oh, so that’s what the huge mound of rope was for.

I ran back upstairs to find the Russians removing our front picture window. And to think I was worried about leaving everything super clean to get my deposit back … these guys are taking out the window?

One mover had gone up the fire escape, carrying the pile of ropes to the roof. He wrapped them around one of the chimneys and dropped the extra mega-yards over the edge of the roof to the window. Meanwhile, back downstairs, the fire marshall wanted to talk to me about moving the truck off our one-way street.

This less than pleasant encounter now also involved the police. Result? The truck had to leave. It would be allowed to return after all our worldly goods were on the sidewalk, ready to load.

It didn’t start to rain until the riggers had tied the convertible sofa to the pulley ropes, lowering it through the trees. That’s when the roof chimney collapsed and all the overhead roping came tumbling down. “Nyet!” I yelled, the extent of my Russian vocabulary… as the sofa swung through the trees, and back toward the brick building. In the rain. The mover holding the rope was almost pulled out the window and had to be caught by the legs.

At the end of the day, all four heavy pieces made it to the sidewalk – only two as part of the aerial act. I ran up and down the four flights 16 times, alienating all my neighbors and part of the city administration in the process. Everything we owned was wet and loaded in the truck when my husband arrived back. I was upstairs giving the bathroom and all the floors one last scrub, when he announced he was too tired to drive to Connecticut. Somehow, we survived that and moved five more times.

Dear Richard and I have considered downsizing, even looking at some houses. Then it hit us: if we buy a smaller house, we’d have to move. My blood ran cold. End of discussion.

I used to be a mover and a shaker. I am no longer a mover… Fuggedaboudit.

Marcy O’Brien lives in Warren, Pa., with her husband, Dear Richard, and Finian their indolent Maine Coon cat. Marcy can be reached at Moby.32 @hotmail.com.