The Rug

I have a knack for using my body and bike in the way that ants use their exoskeletons to transport oversized and complexly-shaped items for nest-making.

This is because I nest-build almost exclusively with nest items that I find on Craigslist.  (Or, here in London, Craigslist + Gumtree + Streetbank.)

I simply cannot bring myself to pay full price for a brand new nest item when I can feel in my heart (and see online) that somewhere out there (within biking distance) there is someone who is desperate to get rid of precisely the thing that I need.  It is a closed loop of supply and demand that is more satisfying than the sound of a lid snapping on a tupperware that is just the right size for your leftovers. Or at least equally satisfying.  

It's not even a question of budget anymore.  If I totaled all the time spent searching, contacting, coordinating, haggling, and address-hunting with Craigslisters, it would easily be triple the amount of hours I would need to work for any internet Ponzi scheme in order to make up for the 10% I’m saving by not getting all my housewares delivered directly from IKEA.   But the thought of perfectly functional lamps and picture frames and full-length mirrors being mercilessly condemned to landfills keeps me up at night.  (Unless I have my eye mask, in which case I am out like a light.)

Yesterday, I wanted a rug.  As destiny would have it, yesterday, Craigslister Olga of Miles End, London, wanted to get rid of her rug.  A triumphant horn sounded in the heavens.  

I finished my run at 11:30am and I had plans to meet a friend at 2:00pm and Miles End, according to Google, was only 41 minutes away.  Cue: triumphant horn #2.

The full celestial chorus broke out in song when, at the exact moment I realized that I was starving upon arrival to Olga’s house, I saw that she lived above a supermarket which, not only had a convenient ATM out front, but also sold delicious* prepackaged egg sandwiches for £1.  All the stars were aligning; this day had surely been blessed.

(*Actual level of deliciousness may have been influenced by extreme levels of hunger.)

Olga was not, of course, a serial murderer.  (Seriously people, that happened like one time, can we please stop being paranoid about it?)  She, of course, had the rug.  She said, “Here you go.”  I said, “Thank you.”  And, when she stood in the doorway looking from my bike helmet to the five-foot rug and then back at my bike helmet, I said, “This might take a minute.  You don’t have to watch.”

And Olga closed the door.

At my disposal:

• 1 drawstring bag
• 1 extra shoelace
• 1 mini carabiner
• 1 jacket
• Set of keys on a keyring
• 1 crumpled egg sandwich box

There are a few important factors to bear in mind when Ant Hauling. (These factors, by the way, I do not claim to have deduced from reason, but have learned from firsthand personal experiences involving lamp shades, wine cases and shelving units.):

• Object must not obstruct vision or cause the helmet to tilt in a way that might obstruct vision
• Object must be situated in a position narrow enough to fit in between cars when lane-splitting
• Object must not sway weight in any direction enough to cause loss of balance
• Attachment of object must not restrict airflow around the neck

On my way home, I cast sideways prideful glances to cars and fellow bikers, keeping my ears piqued for a pedestrian to exclaim from the sidewalk, “Wow! Look out that girl hauling that rug!  How did she manage to attach it to herself so efficiently?”

Yes, I took a selfie while biking with a rug and listening to Google navigator give directions.
No, I was not able to capture the full complexity of the strapping arrangement.  

If the passerbys weren't expressing their awe, I still heard the angel choir singing of my heroism all the way down Miles End road until, at one point, I started to feel a strange sensation in my right thumb.  Or rather, I noticed that I wasn’t feeling any sensation in my thumb.  I shook my hand floppy and managed to summon a few tingles, but before that I hadn’t realized how much the drawstring was pressing on my right shoulder.  

A couple minutes later, the only sound to be heard was the voice I often equate with the voice of God -- Mrs. Google Maps Navigator.

“Continue straight on CANNON ROAD for a half mile, then turn left.”

The numbness had spread throughout my right hand which I was giving the floppy shake out at every safe opportunity (although this did not seem to be increasing blood flow much).  

“Turn left.  Then, turn left.”

That doesn’t make sense lady, there is no left here.

“Continue on to WHITECHAPEL.  Then, Make - a - you - turn.”

No, I’m not doing that.

“GPS signal lost.”

Marvelous.

When the tingling rose all the way to my right bicep, I wondered if I should pull over.  But I carried on, flopping my entire arm out to the side, no longer concerned about what the general public must think of the girl with a massive rug strapped to her back, making U-turns on her bike while performing a one-sided Flapping Funky Chicken dance.

At long last (maybe ten minutes), as if illuminated by a divine sunbeam, I saw The Drunken Monkey -- a dim sum restaurant I recognized! I was close to my house! The clouds opened to the resounding trumpets once again, playing a version of Handel's Messiah with the words changed to "Drunken Monkey! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!"   Another ten minutes later and me, my rug and my dangling corpse arm rolled up to the front of my apartment building. I lifted the weight of the rug with my left hand from behind to ease the burden on my right shoulder and the joyous circulation flowed in all it's excruciatingly tingly warmth.

Tonight I will sleep soundly (with or without my eye mask), next to my rescued rug, dreaming of the hair dryers and curtains I might save from garbage damnation tomorrow.