I’m too old for this crap

Before I even get into the “crap” I speak of in the title of this post, I am reminded often of a piece of paper that uses to be on my desk taped to shelf. “Sometimes we are so busy doing the urgent we fail to do the important.” One of the “important” things is writing because it is an outlet in so many ways for my personal happiness and health. And for weeks all I have been doing is the urgent. I hope that is going to turn around in the coming week.  Because even though I am not terribly ancient I am too old for this crap.

Several years ago when my first husband had passed away I read somewhere a list of major life stressors. I can’t cite the source but I remember that death of a child or spouse was top of the list them moving and divorce came later on the list. I have been in serious moving mode for about three weeks, and off and on for the past 5 months in some capacity. I am so over it I can’t see straight.

I looked up life stressors again this morning and the “Top 5 Strressful Situatuons” found on healthstatus.com were in order, Death of a loved one, Divorce, Moving, Major Illness and Job Loss.  While the list I had seen years ago had moving in the #2 spot and divorce down the line some place I can attest to the upheaval depression anxiety distress etc that accompanies the top 3. I don’t feel good about living in the middle of #2 and #3 right now. I think we can all agree at any age we are too old for the crap that is moving. 

I have spent almost every spare minute in loading vehicles moving things to a climate controlled storeroom or driving almost 3 hours to my mother’s in Burnet, Texas north of Austin. When not hauling my life items some place, I am sorting them, placing value on what makes the traveling squad, what do I need going forward. I can tell you in a hurry there was a lot of team members cut from the squad. There was a point where I flat didn’t care anymore about items that once I really liked. I don’t know how many times in the past days I have said, “I just don’t care anymore,” but it has been a lot. Going through cabinets in kitchen, when I will be living with my mom and anything I keep ends up in a box in a storeroom, will bring s big “I don’t care”. Red knife set in butcher block? Don’t care. Carefully selected dishes from Crate and Barrel bought with great affection for my previous home in Lubbock? Don’t care. “You take them” is another phrase I have said a lot to my nearly ex-husband. He will have use for things I won’t as I move into my mom’s house. I have ditched a whole array of lamps, towels, bedding, kitchen utensils and cooking items,cabinet of spices. I have lost count of what doesn’t matter.

What does matter is my sanity which I would like to find again soon but I am afraid I have packed it in a boxe that is now way in the corner of that stacked to the gills storage unit.

My Christmas decorations, family photos, children’s boxes with baby books and clothes, framed art, the lamps that I kept, various household needs, tax records, you name it are now going to be kept in Fort Woerh while I live outside of Austin. My furniture I kept was picked up, crated and now will be housed in long term storage in Carrollton. Furniture moved only 3 years ago from living 30 years in Lubbock. My mom has already started to get anxious looking at the items I did bring to her house that now take over a spare garage, my dad’s former office and the spare room I will sleep in. The life in boxes is not a life I planned or expected. But here it is.

At 51, my body is complaining mightily about all this activity. That’s a big indicator I am too old for this moving crap. My hands are killing me. Every joint is in mutiny. When I sit down for any amount of time there is a chorus of outraged body voices when I get back up. My heart is sad and broken and while rest may help the physical body I am not sure what will help the emotional one. 

Last trip down with a load in my Ford Explorer yesterday  (which incidentally I bought new last fall as a tow vehicle for my new camper about a week before I found out my life  was about to take a big detour) I brought my 75 year old mom with me. I needed an extra driver because in addition to the Explorer I have a  company car. Shortly I will get up from this hotel bed and drive 30 minutes north of Fort Worth and hitch up my camper and head to my mom’s house. 

The Fort Worth house of my husband for the past 17 years closed yesterday. He had been in just the same moving mode as I have been although he is moving to a different place than me. I saw him last night still packing up the last things of his life in that house before I came back to the hotel. I helped him do a few things even through there wasn’t anymore of me in the house. Tonight and tomorrow of this weekend I will get to try and organize what things I have at my parent’s house for my makeshift living for how long, I don’t know yet. Exhausted, dirty and disheveled I hugged my husband of 3 years and almost 4 months to say goodnight and goodbye and I started to cry. He said, not nearly so emotional  “oh I thought we were going to get through this without this happening.” Yea right Buddy I just don’t let you see how often I cry.
I came to love Fort Worth pretty quickly. It is a great city. I was quite happy with the idea of living here rest of my life. But I can’t live here if I am not making a life with him. It wasn’t my city before “us” it was his. So I will go back to what was my town, Austin and area, before college and 30 years in Lubbock and see if I can reclaim it. 

But I would have been just fine not moving or divorcing at this point in my life. I am seriously too old for this crap. 


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s