UHaul Trucks (You Are Bad Ass)

As someone who has moved repeatedly, I am no stranger to renting UHaul trucks. However, this was not something that came easily to me at all. At the time of the first rental, in my 30s, I did not have a strong background in driving. Growing up in the suburbs of Boston, Massachusetts, I was walking distance to everywhere I needed to go; if I couldn’t walk, I took the bus or subway. I then spent most of my 20s in London, where driving is wholly unnecessary. Although I managed, the stress of each rental took its toll on me. Visibility is often poor, and the handling on a minimally maintained rental truck can leave a lot to be desired.

The nadir of my UHaul experiences came when I was conducting some move or other around the area of Daly City, California. So named “The Gateway to the Peninsula,” Daly City is a large, densely populated city bridging San Francisco and points South. I had to return the truck to a tiny parking lot jam packed with other UHaul trucks. I did not even attempt to park it myself. I left it right in front of the office and blithely told the man inside that there was no way I could park it. Unsmiling, he told me due to liability issues, they were not allowed to park the trucks themselves. I had to do it. I told him that there was no way I could manage that; I had barely managed to turn into the tiny lot from the congested street. I could see it play out on his face, behind flinty eyes and lips pressed together: violate his company rules or let the visibly frazzled woman dent multiple trucks while attempting to park.  Silently, he snatched the keys out of my outstretched hand and went out to park the truck.

I managed to avoid renting a truck again for many years. I paid movers to the greatest extent possible, and a couple of moves were international where the customer is not allowed to handle the goods for customs and insurance reasons. Inevitably, that peaceful phase came to an end. I was in the midst of three months of mini moves within Albuquerque. First my son and I moved out of our house, into a long-term Airbnb. Then my son moved into a mobile home, and I into an apartment. The storage locker I rented was a key player in these moves. I had still managed to pay movers and use my son for labor, until the stage where I had to move boxes of my stuff into the apartment. Loathe to part with more money, I decided to rent a truck and move my boxes myself. It is decisions like that that make me question my sanity. I was in my mid 50s at this point, and not in particularly good shape. Then again, it is decisions like that that are probably the reason I am still quite strong, physically. I keep doing shit like that.

I booked the truck and made sure there would be a hand truck with it. As I headed to Indian School and Eubank to pick it up, I felt worse and worse. After the last time, I had vowed that I was not going to rent a truck again. I deserved better. I deserved to be like other women my age, or so I thought, and not push myself so far out of my comfort zone by renting a truck and moving, alone. Surely, I deserved a break in life like that. By the time I arrived, I was feeling almost sick with anxiety.

This vehicle was nicer than any others I had rented. It was new, shiny, and had a nice, soft driver’s seat. It was a van, much sleeker than the ancient box trucks of old. Driving it was also not bad at all. There was an impressive array of side mirrors that gave me a clear view of the entire road behind me, near and far. I always had mild trepidation driving in Albuquerque, because so many vehicles on the road are trucks and SUVs. I always felt dwarfed in my Prius. But in the van, I felt like I fit in. I was pleasantly thrilled to note that heading South on Tramway, all the other vehicles kept a respectful distance from me and did not tailgate.

Something interesting happened. I felt not just relief, but a surge of confidence. I felt pretty bad ass, trucking down the road in this huge vehicle. I handled it fine. Shlepping hand trucks full of boxes into my apartment was less enchanting, but nevertheless, I managed. By the time I returned the truck, I felt pleased with myself that I pushed through the dread and accomplished what I needed. The fact that I had rented so many trucks throughout my life became a source of pride. I had never enjoyed it, but I did what needed to be done. Feeling afraid or anxious was not sufficient reason to not do something. I was stronger than my fear. So, too, did I stop resisting the image of it. I was a woman who was good at driving trucks and moving boxes. What perverted societal messages made me anything less than proud of that?

I wish more people had this type of experience. I think sometimes people have these experiences but might not recognize the full value of them. There are many examples of this sort of empowering event: undergoing a medical procedure that terrifies you, or confronting a situation that does. Savor it. Remember it. Call upon your strength and courage when you need to. You are bad ass.