The armoire

Very rarely do I experience no-stakes high drama events in life, but let me tell you about the armoire.

Back in May my husband comes to me and tells me his aunt has offered him an armoire. You know, a wardrobe, like in Narnia. It is meant to be 4 foot wide and quite tall but with a good amount of the height coming from a detachable bit on top. His aunt and uncle are going to drop it off on Saturday. I ask him if he measured everything. He assures me he has.

Soon I receive an update. They’re coming on Thursday actually. And it may have been a bit bigger than he thought it was but he is sure it will be fine.

Reader, it was not fine.

The armoire arrives.

I took one look and observed to several relatives that the thing in the truck was definitely not going to fit up our stairs. I was ignored, but I did garner some sympathetic looks.

They began to unload the armoire. I watched from the porch.

A half hour later they had managed to get the thing in the door. Two attempts were made to carry this behemoth of carpentry up the stairs. Neither was successful. After some observation, our aunt declared we had to keep it and took off, taking the only truck that could carry the armoire. It is ours. Forever.

It’s now in the pantry as our new shelving unit, and to be honest it looks pretty nice. This proves the axiom that what makes a tragedy of a tale is entirely where it ends. It’s pretty, actually. I may even like it once my house is put back together.