Sold!

Here I sit, surrounded by boxes. Small, medium, large, and gigantic boxes. Boxes that contain my life. Why is this move making me feel so old? There is no adventure here as I had in my younger days. There is very little to plan for as there is less of my life ahead of me than behind me. Everything I own is in these boxes. When this is done, I will own one less thing—a home.

During this move, I have realized that selling a home is like getting rid of an old love interest. You don't want him, but you don't want anyone else to have him either. When I look at the perfectly chosen color scheme and one of my many renovation successes, I think, "I designed this, and now some stranger is going to be enjoying it." This move doesn't sit well with me.

Now, understand, I have never liked living in this condo. I am a house person. After living here for only six months, I realized that I did not want to pay a mortgage and a condo fee to have an association of old farts (I am 70 and probably should not be so judgmental) telling me where to park, how to behave and that I can't have a dog! Or, get this, sending an email blast out to the entire complex because my granddaughter left a flip flop at the pool. Now six years later, I finally said, "Enough is enough. Even though selling this place may mean living under an overpass in a cardboard box, I can't do this anymore." Let that sink in for a minute. Owning this place is a definite love/hate relationship.

This move is the worst I have been through in my decades of living on this planet. I have always had shelter but usually with another person. When a move became necessary, I left everything behind, many times including the other person. On the rare occasion that I decided to take them and my possessions with me, I had manual labor, which I sorely lack this time. When I say sorely, I mean sore-ly. Everything on this aging body of mine hurts. But I am getting ahead of myself. To put everything into perspective, you need to know what led to this insane life change of mine.

Let me take you through the decision, the sale, the move, and the fact that I have known that I would ultimately be homeless at the end of this but didn't care. Until now!

Sold! That one word weighs heavy on my mind and has created a hole in the pit of my stomach I have been unable to fill since it was spoken by my realtor three weeks ago. How did I get here?

When you get to be my age, you start thinking about retirement if you have either married, divorced, or planned well. Since I have done none of those things, I had resigned myself to work until noon on the day of my death That is until I found myself with a new boss who I am sure is determined to make my days as miserable as he can, retirement pushed itself in the forefront of my thoughts. But how? As I previously stated, I did not marry, divorce or plan well. Life was supposed to work out for me. To all of the young people out there, spoiler alert, it doesn't work without one of the three previously mentioned elements working well; of the three I strongly suggest planning, it is much less stressful.

First, I called a Realtor who took a gorgeous video of my condo. After watching it, even I wanted to buy it. Then I had to set the price, which I changed three times, increasing $10,000 each time. Was I unconsciously trying to sabotage the sale? I made a plan to stand firm. Then I got an offer. Not what I wanted, so I turned it down. Then another, and it was on the money. So, I asked for closing costs paid by the buyer; the answer: yes! Panic set in. But, in my heart of hearts, I knew if I ever wanted to retire, I had to sell, so I say yes. More panic!

Now, where to live. I have been seeing a man for six years, so I asked, and he said yes, so that can be a temporary fix. I have to admit that the decision did cause the hole in the pit of my stomach to triple in size. This solution will have to do until I find a home that I can afford, do I dare say the words, on a "fixed income." My days of luxury condo living are officially over.

I refuse to ask the guy I am seeing to help me move. Funny, I feel I am inconveniencing him enough by asking for temporary lodging, so I start packing myself. How does anyone amass this much stuff? I should throw most of it away and start over, but that is not an option because, have I said, I have no money?

Moving day is approaching, and the freight elevator breaks down and will not be repaired for another month. I am on the 8th floor of this building, and I have signed a contract, and I have to move. Two Hunks and a Truck say they can do it with the passenger elevator, but I do not see how. Additional panic!

As I pack up the final items, I start to cry. I don't even like this place. What is wrong with me? It is not my love of this place. I realize that I am in the sunset of my life with no home, and everything I own will be in these boxes in a storage unit until further notice. I have never felt so old in my life. In my thirties, forties, or fifties, I would not have thought twice about starting over. But now, at this stage, with the possibility of no income and no place to call my own, I am terrified and very, very sad. There is no sense of adventure in this move, only a sense of dread and panic!

I can usually find humor in everything but not this. I am struggling with this. The closing day is quickly approaching, and the move-out day the day after. Move-out day terrifies me the most. I imagine myself watching as movers fight the small elevator to move my boxes and my furniture to their new home. The condo will slowly be emptied, and all signs that I was ever here will be erased as I watch. Why don't people tell you about this part of aging? About the sense of loss, you feel about the strangest things.

I have always said that your attitude is your choice, and I believe that to be true. I realize that I am choosing a terrible attitude, and it is not helping things. Being in panic mode, crying, and cursing my lot in life is not making me any younger. It isn't erasing my past mistakes and my lack of planning. What I do from this point on determines if I become a miserable old homeless lady or an interesting woman of a certain age who still finds adventure in the unknown and happiness in the possibility's life holds

Oh, how I want to be the latter. To be continued…