This Better Be a Good Reason
Our family has been moving our home for over a week now; we're starting to look like soldiers who've been in the trenches for months: forlorn, depressed, ambivalent. Dragging, without appetite, we arrive to pick up another load even though we rented a truck over the weekend for the big stuff.
Even though the new place -- a geodesic dome completed in the early 80's -- is like a vacation house: spacious, spectacular views, freshly painted, new carpet (which we hate: carpet, not new), we struggle to adjust: cardboard boxes -- cajas en español -- line walkways and mark "the path."
Our two cats have acclimated, in less than two days, to the new place having sufficiently explored and smelled everything. And, of course, sharpened their claws on familiar furniture. The old one, Kalu, whom we affectionately call "The Old Bag" is protesting the relocation by urinating on my clothes that she finds on the floor: the bitter smell tips me off. Litter box? Not gonna use it, she seems to be telling us. Yes, I've gotten the message: don't leave any clothes on the floor. Thank you.
Normally, I would have taken pictures of the process and the new place; I have neither the motivation nor the interest: I am, I fear, fully invested in a struggle to breathe less shallowly. Anxiety grips me, usually, first thing in the morning. Yes, I've switched to decaffeinated coffee.
All of these accommodations to just cope with situation makes me feel sufficiently wimpy and...so it goes. Some folks tell me I'm doing great because I'm still breathing. The hero/heroine in this situation is my wife, Patty: she plods through the work without relish or complaining. A dedicated realist, she provides a valiant model for us all.
Our family has been moving our home for over a week now; we're starting to look like soldiers who've been in the trenches for months: forlorn, depressed, ambivalent. Dragging, without appetite, we arrive to pick up another load even though we rented a truck over the weekend for the big stuff.
Even though the new place -- a geodesic dome completed in the early 80's -- is like a vacation house: spacious, spectacular views, freshly painted, new carpet (which we hate: carpet, not new), we struggle to adjust: cardboard boxes -- cajas en español -- line walkways and mark "the path."
Our two cats have acclimated, in less than two days, to the new place having sufficiently explored and smelled everything. And, of course, sharpened their claws on familiar furniture. The old one, Kalu, whom we affectionately call "The Old Bag" is protesting the relocation by urinating on my clothes that she finds on the floor: the bitter smell tips me off. Litter box? Not gonna use it, she seems to be telling us. Yes, I've gotten the message: don't leave any clothes on the floor. Thank you.
Normally, I would have taken pictures of the process and the new place; I have neither the motivation nor the interest: I am, I fear, fully invested in a struggle to breathe less shallowly. Anxiety grips me, usually, first thing in the morning. Yes, I've switched to decaffeinated coffee.
All of these accommodations to just cope with situation makes me feel sufficiently wimpy and...so it goes. Some folks tell me I'm doing great because I'm still breathing. The hero/heroine in this situation is my wife, Patty: she plods through the work without relish or complaining. A dedicated realist, she provides a valiant model for us all.
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