Stop! Think! Lift!

When I was a kid, I used to get the biggest kick out of this saying that was on a handful of old moving boxes perpetually quarantined to our basement.  They had three words on them, each followed by an exclamation mark and all in capital type.  They simply said:

STOP!  THINK!  LIFT!

I found the phrase unreasonably funny, but could never quite describe exactly why I laughed out loud every time I looked at them, despite the frequency at which I saw the expression.  Looking back at the phrase and the humor I found in it, I am inclined to believe the reason I found the whole situation so funny was due to two main reasons:

1. Grammatically, the sentence was sound (although I think a simple comma could have sufficed); it was the exclamation points that really conveyed the emotion and urgency with which the statement was intended.  That and the capital letters.  It was so important, I imagine there is a man in a factory somewhere whose sole job it is to ensure there are no misspellings or omissions, that all the letters are legible and the exclamation points hovering precisely over the dots below.  That all spacing, opacity and hue are accurate, and that the ink is properly applied so as not to diminish the necessity of the cardboard communication.
2. The boxes were small.  I believe they were old AVON cosmetic boxes, meant to hold only an unequivocally small amount of product.  They even had lids that separated easily from the containers themselves to as to provide you the convenience and confirmation of inspecting the contents of the box and appropriately preparing your heaving muscles for the task ahead.
   
   (You know, in case it was just a box of bricks.)

Being a young, inquisitive, creative, mildly self-sufficient and frequently impulsive individual (who was also not short on self confidence when it came to problem solving skills), I think I found the message hilarious because I simply couldn't understand why you wouldn't just pick up (or attempt to pick up) the box first in order to determine its weight.  In my eleven-year-old mind, this plan was flawless when it came time to help move the boxes; in looking back on my early years as a developing human being, I now realize this was not a method of trial-and-error I reserved exclusively for picking up an object or two.

I believe I applied this rationale to many areas of my life, throwing caution to the wind and learning through doing in order to determine not the risk of something, no...but instead, only the result of the attempt to heave: often in one awkward, Olympic, dead-lift of a motion that typically began with a confident grip of the roughly cut hole-handles of the box, a quick and dramatic gesture of vertical effort, a 'harumph' upon the disappointing discovery of the unforeseen ballast, and finally, a reversal of heft, resulting in a graceless thump of the cardboard to an unforgiving linoleum floor, no doubt jostling if not outright breaking the contents of the box I so quickly underestimated based on solely its stature I could so effortlessly transport, as if it were filled with feathers.

Alas...bricks.

Blinded by confidence and immune to the worded warning so clearly and carefully printed in sky-blue ink on the boxes (as if to maximize the contrast against the warm, coffee-colored brown surface of the corrugated cardboard), my embarrassment and dismay at the physical failure of my attempt are only slightly outweighed by the new and numbing pain that is now tickling a nerve in my lower back in rhythmic unison to my racing heartbeat.  My ignorance of the simple, three-word message is responsible for not only a rash of hasty decisions (boxed and otherwise), but also a sore lumbar region.

The story could stop there, only I'm not entirely sure I've learned from my mistakes.

21 years later, I am still rushing to lift boxes, sometimes even two or three at once, without so much as a pause or a deep breath to consider the 'stop'.  Now the second part of the message, I've never taken issue with.  That is most definitely the exception.  But a mile-a-minute inner monologue often leaves me assuming I've already moved all the boxes to their new locations when really, I haven't even taken a moment to confirm how far I'll need to carry them.

I suppose for now, this story is my attempt to stop - to first take a moment, a breath, a page (or three) to identify the shortcomings of my confidence and excitement (which, for the record, I am amazed and delighted I still possess); and to think - not with the reckless abandon of youth or the rapidity of a hamster's stationary wheel, but with focus, intent and purpose about what I really want from this life.

The lifting is last...

I just need to figure out where all these boxes go.