Since my husband retired our lives have simply been weird.
For close to three months I’ve been sleeping on the couch. It took a while to get used to it, but now I’m relatively comfy and it works.
But when I wake up in the morning he is sitting approximately three feet from my head, as is exhibited in the following photo:
Our home is relatively large, but every morning he’s right there working on a sudoku puzzle in the NY Post.
To be perfectly fair, this is the seat he always sat in before I began sleeping on the couch and he is a serious creature of habit.
Quite often he will bring me coffee.
Many of my friends have suggested that at some point he may decide to shoot me in the back of the head unexpectedly. But in the mean time he’s really exceptionally nice. I’m not sure why.
Perhaps the element of surprise.
* * * * *
For nearly three years I have wanted to move back home. There are pros and cons to everything but it’s become my bizarre obsession to return to the land of corn and beans.
Yet I have lived in NJ now longer than I ever lived in my hometown, nearly 1,000 miles away.
Once you leave you never again really fit in completely anywhere.
I was not happy when I moved from Illinois to Oregon, nor was I content when I left Oregon and returned to Illinois.
The move to California from Illinois was a relatively disastrous adventure, although I did love San Francisco. The move from San Francisco to North Carolina was simply idiotic.
I left North Carolina for New Jersey like an escaped convict. I’d have done anything to get the hell out of Winston-Salem.
Currently I live an hour from NYC, 90 minutes from Philadephia &/or Atlantic City, 15 minutes from the Atlantic Ocean. Our real estate tax alone is $10,000/year. This is why we don’t often go to NYC, Philadelphia &/or Atlantic City.
* * * * *
We put our house on the market for $120,000 less than it’s worth a couple weeks ago and the first people who looked at it are making an offer. I was standing in Christmas Tree Shoppe when I got the call and you could describe my reaction as panic-stricken.
That’s what happens when your “fantasy life” (as named by my most recently abandoned therapist) starts to look like it might become reality.
Once this move is complete I am definitely mailing that doubting bitch a postcard.