A few weeks ago, when we first saw the apartment Y moved into this weekend, she commented unfavorably on the lack of an elevator in this third-story walk-up. I retorted “you only have to worry about it twice: once when moving in, and again when moving out.”

Man do I regret that. After helping Y move into that third-story walk-up, my body has rebelled. It claims I’ve pushed it too far this time. After the 7.5 mile walk last week, the last thing it needed, it insists, was another strenuous weekend. And yet I compelled it to lift dozens of heavy boxes, beds and bags up and down several flights of stairs for six hours on Saturday, including one particularly cumbersome Ikea sideboard.

In particular, my body is taking its anger out on my lower back, which feels like someone has placed me on a medieval rack and turned the wheel the wrong way, compressing my spine. After rising from a sitting or reclined position, I’m forced to walk in a half-crouch until my body relinquishes its grip around my midsection.

I’m also feeling it in my forearms, which feel like a hot poker was shoved into my wrists. I’m reminded of the exercises I used to do for my stage combat training: I’d take two fencing swords, extend my arms straight out to my sides, to my full wingspan, and describe ever-smaller circles with the tips of the swords. It only took a few minutes to feel the burning sensation. (Don’t believe me? Give it a try with a couple of pens in each arm.)

I’m surprised my legs have been let off the hook. I was expecting my calf muscles have me in throes of agony, but I only feel a mild twinge, and usually only when I’m climbing the stairs. Indeed, I found walking up and down the stairs of the new apartment (as well as the hills of Y’s SF neighborhood) almost refreshing.

Almost.

I’ve already decided: my next move, I’m hiring professionals.