Throughout the course of my 61 years I’ve fancied myself to be flexible and adaptable. I enjoy changing things up. I don’t really like routines. I can barely stand brushing my teeth in the same place every day…I like varying driving routes. Apparently, however, that flexibility does not apply to the changes inherent in moving. I’ve posted more than a few rants about selling my house of 32 years this summer. I think ranting is the operative word here. Apparently I’m not one to keep my anxieties contained. They have managed to spill out into my blog posts for all to share. (I obviously believe writing is a mutual endeavor. We become partners in the words).
So..yes, I’m experiencing a bit of angst about moving. I’ve heard it said moving is one of the top five stress inducers. I’m surprised to say I can understand why. All of the changes we’ve made to make our house marketable have eradicated the soul and spirit of my home. The beige walls, carpet and dining room chandelier do nothing to nourish my spirit, which thrives on color and warmth. (The name of this blog, after all is Be Brave. Lose the Beige. Beigifying my house is a virtual assault to my eyes and being.
Anyone who has listed a house remembers the endless hours spent scouring and scrubbing to ensure remnants of family meals don’t inhabit the inside door of the dishwasher. Not a single solitary squirt of toothpaste can remain in the bathroom sink; the disemboweled squeaker dog toys (or not so squeaky since they are disemboweled) are hidden from view from prospective buyers (what pets? Who us?) Everyone goes through this when they decide to move. As much as I value variety, the disruption of routines is rather seismic. I have to say, a warm, stable, nurturing nest trumps change and variety any day for me. A home is a place where the collective sighs of the day escape your lips like air escaping an errant balloon as your key unlocks the door. Your potentially clenched stomach relaxes at least a bit. I’ll admit it…except for my children, I’m not a fan of long or even short term visitors in my house. My home is a place where I unpack my emotions- joyous or otherwise. That vulnerability is not something I necessarily want to share with non-immediate family members until I’m good and ready. So I, and perhaps my co-enablers (readers) of this blog, will be happy with this change actually occurs. The music from David Bowie’s refrain, “Ch ch ch ch Changes” replays itself over and over in my head, as like him, I turn and face the strain.