I’m sitting at a desk that is covered with God-knows-what that requires attending to. This is the scene in my living room.
Soon to be my former living room. I am at that state in the packing that might be described as chicken-without-a-head. Every room is mid-pack, an explosion of things to pack and things not to pack. The former are the easy ones to deal with: just pack ‘em. The latter, though, are giving me grief. I can’t in good conscience throw out things that I know someone else could/would use. How many loads of things can I take to GoodWill before I just say F*** It and start pitching?
Two Days Later…
I have said “F*** it” and am filling black bags with all manner of Stuff. I have run out of black bags.
I am also running out of air…because I keep forgetting to breathe.
Part of this is the angst of packing. Part of it is the angst of leaving MidLifeBloggers and MidLife-Beauty relatively unattended at the start of The Season. Suddenly those dreams I’ve had all my life, the ones where I forget that I’ve put my baby in a box on the window sill, the ones that made no sense because I’ve never had a baby, make sense. Oh, yeah, this is my baby. In my dreams, the baby in the box when I finally remembered it was hollow-cheeked, almost dead from starvation. Today’s version is that my stats for MidLifeBloggers and MidLife-Beauty withering away to almost nothing. In both cases, I’m overwhelmed by fear and guilt–I should have remembered…I should have done better…I’m getting what I deserved….
How I Fly
I have always been a by-the-seat-of-my-pants kinda girl. This time, I’m taking it to the extreme. The moving van arrives on Sunday, taking all our worldly goods to storage in Los Angeles, where it will live until we find a place to settle. We, two adults and a large dog, will be staying at an Extended Suites motelhotelwhatever you call it near the ariport. We are taking our own towels, because I understand the ones they offer are miniscule. Also, my movable kitchen, because a month or so of fast food might send me over the edge.
A Word About My Movable Kitchen
The first time around, I was married to an actor and we traveled to rep theatres all around Britain. We lived in what the Brits call[ed] digs, which always meant sharing not only a bath, but a kitchen as well. Cooking has always been a way that I’ve grounded myself and I cannot do it without some must-have tools–like a good knife and a grater and a whisk. Part of my luggage then was an old hard-sided plaid suitcase–a relic of WWII, I’m sure–that was filled with everything I needed to make any kitchen feel like my kitchen. When I started filling up a bag the other day with must-have kitchen tools, I suddenly remembered that suitcase and realized I was doing it again.
It isn’t only cooking that grounds me; even more, it’s writing.
I feel better now. I’m breathing.
The chicken has its head again….for now.
