Due to a slight technical glitch – no ISP connection the first morning in my new digs – there was no post here at TGB yesterday. By the time my computer was hooked up in the early afternoon, there were too many things to do and too many places to go to write about getting old.
And old is what I feel. There is a significant difference between moving at age 42 (which I was last time) and age 65. Somewhere in the intervening 23 years, I lost the knack of being on my feet for 14 hours straight. Or of carrying heavy objects up a flight of stairs more than three times in quick succession.
The upside is that I haven’t slept so soundly or for as long – a full eight hours – in a year or more and I haven’t felt this much energy after waking in a long time either.
But here’s the best part: when you have been separated from your “stuff” for three weeks, opening cartons is like the biggest birthday you never had. “Oh, wow. I’d forgotten about that sweater.” “What a terrific-looking bowl.” “Why haven’t I been using that quilt in the past couple of years.”
At the packing end of a move, the point is to throw out what you don’t want and get the cartons filled as quickly as possible.
But at the unpacking end of the move, there is time – nay, necessity – to slow down, ponder where each item goes, polish it up a bit before putting it in its new place and then to change your mind once or twice about where it should go.
All that standing and walking, bending and stretching for a long day at age 65 is more wearying than I had anticipated. But the excitement of a new home, new city, new experiences makes up for it. It’s a huge pleasure filling an empty living space; turning it into a home. It just takes longer this time than it did before.
Give me another week of hasty or skipped posts while I settle in and then I’ll get back to what really matters about getting older.