Moving and losing – your mind
by Linda Leary

You live in a place long enough, you begin to actually fear the idea of moving, unlike when I was a youngster and considered it a vast adventure. Back then everything I owned fit in my car. But now the idea of going through stuff that I had “lovingly saved” for years became more daunting than, say, childbirth or a root canal. Maybe we could just run away? With the kids grown and gone, it was time to downsize and move from our larger, more costly house to a smaller, more affordable one.

The sorting wars began. The Mars and Venus stereotype hit a new low as arguments escalated over whose stuff was more important. Our friends (those with caller ID) quit answering our calls when our whining became unbearable. I think they knew at some level their turns were coming. My containers of dry food and candles saved for that big power outage battled for supremacy over his jars of nuts, bolts, screws and spare tires for a car long gone. Boxes of fabrics (I couldn’t pass up a sale) were pitted against his collection of old comics and airplane magazines. Then came the garage sale. Up at dawn, I put my life on display in the driveway only to watch two women battle over a 50 cent glass candy dish. At the end of the day I made barely enough to pay for the therapy sessions I knew I would soon need. My donations of “stuff” were so numerous that Goodwill rolled out the red carpet when they saw me coming and I am sure I’m on their permanent Christmas card list.

Finally, we closed on our brand new patio home, praying that what we elected to keep (including our slightly battered relationship) would fit. It took a few weeks, but we eventually found a place for everything. We even discovered that each of us had sneaked in a thing or two that we had earlier promised to toss.

In the end we forgave each other. We were survivors. Maybe, in a couple of months, we will even tell our kids where we live. Maybe.