It's so stupid, so dumb, so annoying, and so unnecessary, but it is absolutely true; I am (or have become) such a wuss in my old age. I am in the middle of packing up my house so I can move again, and I get maybe 10 minutes into it and have to quit. It has come to the point where I have to plan in my head exactly what will take place in those precious 10 minutes of energy, and then, around the 11th minute, my mind is still working, but a nerve in my back begins to twitch, and my chest forgets to expand.
This aging thing isn't easy; I can tell you that. We have to move again, and what makes me so very angry is that we knew in our hearts that the last time we moved would be our last time to move. It wasn't, and the entire time since we found out, we've had nothing but anxiety mixed with being upset about it, and all that causes lower gut issues, not to mention heart and mind issues. I'm finding myself having to (or getting to) pray more and more about it, because I'm not able to stop myself from conjuring ways to torture those I feel are to blame.
The truth is, it's not just one thing that caused all this mayhem. It was a few small things that a couple of trusted individuals caused. Both share the blame, but if I'm honest, I know which one I attribute most of the blame to. I won't say now, but believe me, the characters in my next book, "The Trust," will have no reason to hold back any of their emotion. I have to hold my tongue (or keyboard) for now because the deal isn't closed. I'm in the deep middle of the upset and just can't wait to sit in my new home, in my new office at this very desk and type my hurt and feelings away - right into the pages of the 10th installment of the Nick Posh thrillers.
So, I got up a while ago and had two boxes ready to go. I unfolded them, taped up the bottoms, and faced the pantry in my hallway to unload the things I don't use, don't need, shouldn't have brought with me this time, and will not be taking to the next house. Why in the world I thought I had to have a small deep fryer and a tortilla press, I don't know. I used the deep fryer exactly one time. I never even opened the tortilla press - they will both be donated. They'll be donated, as well as the little screw thing that you put a potato in, and it makes curly fries - used it twice for zucchini, and that's it.
I'm also giving away my old juicer. It was used a great deal. It is too big, too bulky, but still works just fine. Someone may like it. I'm also giving away the old glass kettle with the base. It's larger than we wanted. It works. Hopefully, someone will say "OMG! I have always wanted one of these!" That's the hope. Meanwhile, after packing just two boxes, my back aches, my breath is labored, and I'm almost sweating. Damn! It's only 70 degrees in my house. It has to be me.
Earlier today, I did the same thing with the two boxes (it seems to be a limit now), and I faced my office closet. I had already packed most of the closet last week, but I finished the last two boxes today. No donations there. One box was all of my books, notebooks, and extra paper that I use for writing my novels. Each book is thought out first in a little tartan-covered notebook. Most of the time, two of my novels will share a notebook. The book "Shadow" has its own. I have lots of notes for that one.
Later today, when I can muster another 10 minutes to do something, I'll go into my bathroom and pack what I need. I'll leave out a single towel and wash it every third or fourth day until we move. I'm doing the same thing with my bedding. I am using just one set of sheets, but they get washed every Saturday. By Friday, the amount of mud clots from the dog's paws is rather amusing. I end up shaking the sheets onto the floor and vacuuming the next day. Maybe I should leave out two sets of sheets -- nah!
The hallway will be done tomorrow. That will conclude all the packing I have to do. The rest of the house will be Laura's responsibility, and she has the weekdays to pull it off. I have to work during the week, but it's all good. We'll get it done. I couldn't do more than I can anyway—it's the saddest of sads, really —to see yourself in the mirror and wonder who the old lady is and why she's in your bathroom. If she's just going to stand there, she may as well be useful.
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