=Friends, it has begun. And by “it,” I mean the selling of our house. Our home. Our place of habitation for the last 14 years. And I find myself oscillating between elation and sadness, always combatting the anxiety that comes with such an endeavor. Here’s the skinny:
My husband Doo and I have been, for years, eyeballing the moment we could finally call ourselves empty nesters and downsize to a life of close-to-retirement people with no kids or a yard. And with the youngest of our four precious angels having recently and, fingers crossed, permanently left the nest, said moment has arrived. Huzzah! We simply don’t need or want the space anymore, nor the headaches that come with cleaning multiple bathrooms or operating a 24-hour U-store-it facility for an ungodly amount of K-12 and rec soccer memorabilia.
Have we found another place to live? Nope. Do we have back-up shelter if we sell quickly? Also, a no (note to self: text Doo’s parents!). Have we even finished prepping our current abode for the upcoming sale? Negative, Ghostrider. But we’ve made the decision to list and begun to work through our feelings. So, barring a sudden downturn in the market or zombie apocalypse, the “For sale” sign is imminent.
Part of me is thrilled. There’s a wonderful sense of satisfaction that comes with purging a closet full of discarded kitchen appliances. But I also get weepy packing away old photo albums that I haven’t seen since 2010, when we moved into this house, wondering if we’re making a huge mistake. I’m a hot mess of emotions, to say the least. You’re welcome.
Peace out.
