Right now I’m schlepping things down the driveway from the house to the RV.
Then I’m schlepping the same things right back up the driveway, forced to accept the fact that I’m not going to be able to take some of the things I wanted.
Told Ya So Dave is trying so hard not to say it.
Until today, I thought I had everything I couldn’t take but wanted to keep, already packed and sent to storage. The furniture and things we are selling are ready for the estate sale next weekend.
But this pile of “gotta have’s” is giving me fits.
My favorite casserole dish won’t fit in the little toaster oven. Frozen Lasagna Dave doesn’t care.
I packed away eight of my favorite dinner plates and have four in the take pile. Chinet Dave thinks paper plates are fine.
I think we need all the large bath towels we own and Air Dry Dave thinks more than one towel each is a waste of space.
Real glass drinking glasses are important- I can’t spend the next year drinking out of a red solo cup( unless it is full of tequila because of its tendency to lower my ability to give a s**t)- I’m just not sure where I’m going to put any of them.
Wine Drinking Dave might open his underwear drawer and find his favorite Riedel wine glass nestled among his boxers.
My clothes! My shoes! When we got the house ready to go on the market, I donated bags of clothes and shoes. Now, I have to go through everything again. I really do need those 30 black tank tops. I need 5 pairs of black flip flops. There are subtle differences…
I’ve been sailing along through this as if it were fairly easy. I have at least one emotional breakdown a day because it isn’t easy at all.
Today’s tears were over a mixer.
Yes, I know, it’s a mixer and they sell them everywhere, but this is MY mixer. It’s the mixer I made the kids favorite cakes with, the mixer I mashed holiday mashed potatoes with. It’s the mixer of memories.
Memories (and the fact that I’m a soft-hearted, sentimental woman) are the issue. We’re selling eighty percent of our furniture and household items, and each piece has a memory attached to it. As much as I remind myself to focus on the adventure ahead, the leaving behind is hard.
Except maybe those five pairs of black flip flops. I could probably live with four, and then I’d have room for the tequila.