A long, long time ago, in a lifetime far, far away, there lived a happy-go-lucky twentysomething who saw a charming, edgy Spanish film called Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios, otherwise known as Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown
The young woman didn’t totally get it, however. Not the part about being on the verge of anything, much less a nervous breakdown. Until now, that is.
Trying to remain calm in the midst of a crisis that threatens to worsen each passing minute can be more stressful than the problem(s) itself. Case in point: this awful, awful move. I won’t bore you with all the gory details (has to do with horrible mold and a poorly constructed drainage system that failed when severe thunderstorms hit the North Texas region last week), but suffice it to say that choosing a newly constructed apartment because you think that something so pristine couldn’t possibly have any problems is wrong, wrong, wrong. As our [fortunately] sympathetic and understanding new community manager tells me, “You guys get to be the beta testers.” It’s one thing if you’re trying out new software or a nifty little gadget that just hit the market. It’s quite another when it’s your home.
I sit here in our new apartment, all fingers and toes crosses in the hope that nothing else could go wrong, surrounded by what seems like a million boxes. Ms. Maura, dressed in a beautiful red suit throughout the Pedro Almodovar film, is the only really level-headed person throughout that movie, even though she’s the one closest to the eye of the storm. I try to channel her deliberate responses, her remarkably stoic and serene demeanor the only thing that anchors everyone’s lives around her. I’m thinking of all those great home makeover shows on TV and how excited and enthusiastic everyone is in them, but then again, they have an army of contractors, cheery and cute hosts with years of experience behind them, and generous budgets. Would that someone were to come to my house and offer to magically transform my home into a habitable abode while I wait out the week in a nice little hotel, my pocket bulging with a fat envelope containing my per diem.
I can understand why Europeans like to stay put, why Dubliners sign 99-year leases (before the economic storm, that is), why the French like to stay in homes on the verge of collapse, patching up what needs fixing until the next time it screams attention. Moving can be such an ache in the heart, stomach and head — all the fragile parts of the body — not to mention the pocketbook. It disrupts the harmony of life, especially in this modern age when we don’t just have a few spears and perhaps some animal skins to haul to our next cave. No, we have bookcases, which means boxes of books; wardrobe boxes, which means closets of clothes and hangers; desks, which means containers of office supplies and papers; kitchens, which mean pots and pans and dishes and glasses and silverware and cookbooks and utensils and canned goods; electronic gadgets, which mean accessories; and heavy, heavy furniture. At this point in my life, I’m thinking of making this our final temporary home. Our next move will be the permanent one, the one where we find a place that we can call Home for at least a decade or so. Life’s too short to sacrifice so much momentum, energy and money on moving house all the time. I envy my brother’s bachelor friend, who can move everything he owns in one truck, on one trip. That was my life at twenty-two, when I moved from Dallas to Japan with two suitcases and a duffel bag. That was my life at twenty-five, when I moved from Dallas to South Carolina with ten boxes and one suitcase. That isn’t my life at thirty-seven and likely never will be again.
One good thing to come out of this move: we’ve transitioned from a fairly large, three-bedroom home (with garage) into a small, 800-square-foot, one-bedroom apartment (with garage). We’ve pared down our belongings considerably and still have more to prune over the next few days. (Before moving into the big house in Colorado, we had lived in a 1.5-bedroom apartment, but of course nature abhors a vacuum. Our stuff had grown to accommodate the larger space. Natch.) Sometimes I sink into despair as I look around me and realize I can barely see over the ocean of boxes that populate every square foot of space in this tiny apartment. I feel better when I think of how much we’ll (re-learn) to live on less, with fewer things, and learn to really appreciate quality pieces that will last a lifetime, if not longer. I’m looking forward to decorating this apartment with the precious pieces that we do have, and filling in the edges with carefully edited additions. I’ve already picked up a couple of books at the library on designing small interiors and have my eye on magazines at the newsstand with similar themes. I’ve seen small French apartments in films and design books that are perfect inspirations for what I want to accomplish in our new little space. It’ll take a little while, but I hear tell that anything of value is worth the time it takes to achieve.
For those of you looking for some inspirations on how to live on less, I strongly recommend the following books:
Not Buying It: My Year Without Shopping
The Simple Living Guide: A Sourcebook for Less Stressful, More Joyful Living
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{ 2 comments }
Take heart, jeune fille. You are having a rough time and you will get through it. Some of my unhappiest times were, looking back, the times when I was more alert, heightened and unforgettable. Not just on auto-pilot. Love your husband, de-clutter, go to yoga class and read, read, read. These are all things filled with grace that’ll counteract the yuck.
Dear Anonymous, merci mille for the kind thoughts and words of encouragement! I know that I’m suffering a bit from tunnel vision, seeing only the clutter and chaos around me, and that I need to focus on the light at the end. It does seem that everything’s conspiring to make this transition more difficult, but perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned in the midst of all of this?
I’m reading lots and lots, in between unpacking and buying staples for the apartment. I take some time each morning to sit and enjoy my coffee before I plunge into the day. I haven’t had much time to do yoga, save for three minutes of stretches in the morning, but that will change.
Salut,
Marjorie
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