Thursday, September 13, 2012
You know what, as proud of doing this as I am, this hurts. These aren't that heavy. They are just awkward. It's difficult to haul them to the curb. Even with sturdy handles, the containers can bend my wrists in awkward and painful ways. It's times like this that I walk back to the house and think, "Why am I still here?"
That's quite the question to ponder. The black and white answer is that I can't afford to move. The financial problems begun in 2009, are still not, 3 years later, resolved or nearing resolve. Add medical bills to the mess and it will be years before I feel something other than loose sand beneath my feet.
But dealing with RA has thrown the idea that I would be better served to live in a condo, where someone else does maintenance, someone else shovels the walk, someone else prunes the bushes. I've done more this year than I have in the past two. I never knew I was as bad off as I was until someone said, "Let's have you take this stuff and see if that doesn't make you feel better." I do think about doing things that I just shrugged and filed in the "long, long range plans" file.
I like my home, love the town I live in and like my neighborhood, even though the kids across the street seem to get into trouble pretty much once a month. One of these days, an officer is going to come to the front door at 9:45 at night, ask if I know anything about someone keying a car across the street and I'll say, "Can you wait right here? I have to run back and help the guild kill Cho'gal," and he's going to look at me and ask, "10 or 25-man?" I can see, however, my time in this house is growing limited. That is inevitable. I can see me moving, not immediately, but down the road. I can see a condo with a deck with flowers and I can see myself being happy there. Hauling 3 containers of yard waste to the curb makes me think it's not bad that it could be sooner rather than later.