Two Girls in Sneakers

We shook up the feng shui at home, yesterday. Ter’s been unable to sleep in her room for much of the past year because the neighbours’ 50-inch TV is situated below her bedroom, and since they are the loudest people we have ever lived with—ironic, given the stringent reference checks we went through specifically asking how noisy we are—it became easier (once we thought of it) to move her into my room rather than fight with them about it. It meant juggling a few cumbersome pieces of furniture. For two women in their fifties, losing approximately half a pound of muscle per year and each coping with her own particular brand of structural damage, it presented a daunting challenge. So daunting, in fact, that I began to suspect Ter of dawdling as the day wore on and we were still out and about on errands, with the challenge and our regularly scheduled laundry day still before us.

At three in the afternoon, however, we threw in the first load of laundry and got down to it. First task: shifting my computer desk, which weighs a ton and doesn’t bend around corners. Yep, it was heavy, but we did it. Negotiated it out one door, paused for breath. Hauled it a short way down the hall, paused for breath. Angled it through a second door and congratulated ourselves on not blowing out a vertebra. In comparison, the bed was easy, except for the staple that bit Ter when she gripped the boxspring in a delicate place. Three bookcases followed (one to the hallway and two to the new writing room), then my dresser was repositioned and Ter was able to bring in her night table and get her sleeping space in order. Yay, us!

Hooking up my computer and the stereo took a tad more finesse. I couldn’t remember how to connect the speakers though I had only just disconnected them, so I had to call in Ter. She also had to help with the peripherals on my writing rig, pushing the keyboard cord up through the back of the desk so I could grab it from above and plug it into the PC. That was one of the more comical moments, her pushing the wimpy cord up and me unable to grasp it from the top with my right hand. “Can you get it higher?” I asked, at which she crept forward a bit and promptly bumped her head against the keyboard tray. I felt the cord’s end brush the tips of my ring and little fingers but couldn’t bend them to catch it (they have false joints and don’t always go where I want them). “No!” I gasped, half-impaled on the desktop, “this is my three-fingered hand; move it to the left!” At which we both nearly collapsed into giggles. Three hours later, the whole project was done.

We work so well as a team, bouncing ideas off each other, giving and taking as required, discussing and debating, trying one thing then deciding on another and having everything fall into place better than we had imagined. We learned, by moving twice in two years, that a room will tell you where things ought to be placed; you start with a plan and end up with what works best. We moved into this suite believing that each in her own space would be beneficial for us both; thanks to the self-absorbed folks below us, it’s proved not to be the case—at least, not for now. Now, the room-that-was-once-mine is designated for sleeping only; there’s no technology at all save for the evil clock-radio, and the boom box that plays new age white noise during the night … and the feeling in the room is already calmer and more peaceful. I found that strange, given that my energy alone occupied it until yesterday. I’d half-expected to feel as if something’s been taken away, but if something has, I can’t say what it might be. The space is large enough to accommodate each of our personalities without clashing. In fact, I think Ter’s brought a serenity that my red-and-gold “Lannister pad” lacked. She’s much happier now that she knows she can spend the whole night in her own bed instead of starting on the sofa and relocating when the TV goes off downstairs.

And I still have a room in which I can write undisturbed. Win-win!

We have been a team since 1984. Over three decades, we have accomplished great things. I still recall her leaning against the wall outside our new apartment in 1993, having just hefted a Xerox box full of books up 56 spiraled stairs. She was panting a little, flushed and glowing as only a fair-skinned Finn can make attractive, when she looked at me and grinned. “If this doesn’t prove we’re possibility thinkers, nothing will!”

Thirty years later, whenever we pull off a coup like we pulled off yesterday, I am reminded of the birthday card she gave me in 2005. I don’t remember what we had conquered that year, but she was pumped about something when she wrote the card: “This is the perfect card for us! Look what we’ve been able to accomplish this year. Just imagine what we can do in the next year! Are you up for it?”

There’s nothing two girls in sneakers can’t do.