I’ve been living out of boxes and bags now for several weeks, and while maddening, it is also somewhat liberating.
... Cellular phone bill? Not sure where that is, guess I don’t have to pay it.
... The shoes that look best with this skirt? Somewhere on a palette in northern Connecticut.
... Deodorant? Lost in limbo.
Huge breath, deep sigh. Life as a transient. I love it. This must be how homeless people feel ... why anyone chooses to have a home is beyond me.
One of my greatest fears is that I will somehow accidentally burn down my house. I’ve had this fear since the first time I lived on my own. I’m so OCD about it that, on my drive home, my eyes are involuntarily drawn to the hillside where I (roughly) know my home to be, looking for an upward-climbing tendril of smoke. Of course, this very real fear has nearly been actualized the few times I’ve accidentally left candles burning or food cooking on the stovetop when I stepped out of the house. Home ownership and forgetfulness are not good bedmates.
I’ll be moving into my very own real home in a few weeks. Renting has gotten really old in the last 6 years; always a guest in someone else’s home, so to speak. Of course, the flip side is that nothing was really my problem, either. I can live with occasional lack of hot water when I don’t have to foot the bill for fixing the water heater. In just three short weeks, I’m handing over a big ol' check for the luxury of making it all my problem.