A Disastrous Move
My brain, my best tee shirts and the lamp shade to my most beautiful lamp are lost, and lost again. I miss my brain the most.
My calendar is blank in important areas. (It was lost for a few days, too.) I am learning about appointments the day after they are due, as, whatever I wrote them on is also missing. I made just a few, telling myself that my normal life could continue somewhat during this life transition period, but it was definitely not the reality. I should have taken at least a month off from everything.
It’s not that I didn’t plan things. I did. First, I worried and agonized for months about whether to sell my downtown duplex and find something less demanding of my time and money, to give myself more freedom to play and explore during my dotage. The first step to freedom seemed to be sleeplessness, weight gain, and tired eyes.
After the decision, I worked like a dog, enlisting contractors and even friends and family to help with undone painting and sorting prior to the open house. I had a list of continued improvements I planned to make, and a basement left to sort when the house sold the day after it was first shown.
Imagine my surprise.
I then started looking for another house. Not quite ready for a condo without a yard, I looked at everything I could find that was modestly priced, intending to remain in the historic district. While looking at comparables in my desired price range, I came across what could have been the house I grew up in. It was so cute and so nicely updated that I just had to buy it.
At about that time, I lost my cell phone, containing all my phone numbers and contact information. Don’t ask. I have no idea.
I also became disoriented. I had planned to do more to my old house during the marketing period, to continue to improve it and increase the chance of selling. I had trouble making the transition to the immediate sale.
My new house, a completely unexpected find, was on the market for two days. Mine was the third offer. As nice as all this was, it was too much for me to process. My planning system, and I really did have one, began to crumble.
I got bids from two well-known, licensed and bonded movers. I chose the lesser bid. Fitting me into an overcrowded, vacation plagued schedule, they sent too small a truck and too few people. Just picture three men stuck on your staircase for an hour, hanging onto your prized wardrobe, and calling for reinforcements on a cell phone.
Fourteen hours and several supplementary pickup loads in one hundred degree heat later, I collapsed, barely getting the house cleaned out before settlement the next morning. I knew I could dress quickly but to drive to Mom’s, shower, change and get to the settlement office in half an hour was a feat, even for me.
I’m not going to bother you with the move in, the carefully wrapped and packed key to that same wardrobe, found only a week after the transition, the two late columns for TheTentacle.com, the double booked appointments.
With new cell phone in hand, calendar in place, I know I’ll find that lampshade.