A day dripping with possibility.
Possibility of crushing defeat. Possibility of explosive life change.
An Official House Inspector type dude will be here on Thursday, December 8. Inspecting our house.
Running his greedy, greasy little paws over every nook and cranny of our existence. Peering around corners, snooping under things, walking around things, armed with vials and sensors and measuring devices to determine if we are worthy.
December 8 is heavy with significance. 12/8 is Gregg Allman's birthday. Jim Morrison's birthday. These are good things. December 8 is the day John Lennon was killed. That's a bad thing. Yin and yang. Up and down. Good and bad. Defeat and victory.
Inspector Man might come in and say "Jesus Christ, this house might as well be made of popsicle sticks. Sale Request Denied."
This would crush all hope. It would transform our address from a house to a mausoleum. We will die here. Penniless. Embarrassed. Broken and defeated by Life.
Or he might say "Well, this joint ain't no fucking palace, but it is workable. Just lop $100,000 off the sale price. Sale Request Approved."
This would fire up Hope. And get us moving at 2,000 mph.
Are you fucking kidding me? The tentative closing date is somewhere in the middle of January. If Inspector Man chooses to smile upon us rather than shit upon us, our life will be rocket boosted into orbit. We will be zigging and zagging and hustling and bustling like fucking whirling dervishes.
We have lived here for 36 years. 36 fucking years. Do you have any idea how much shit we have accumulated in this house? We have already dealt with 300 tons of shit, and what is left is still overwhelming.
It will be painful but ultimately worth it.
Then there is the tiny, little detail of finding another place to live.
Who will have us?
Mixed emotions: Neither of us wants to do this. If we won a million dollars today, we would pay off the mortgage and stay here, as ridiculous as that decision would be. Hopefully, once we are safely ensconced in the new joint, we will be beaming smiles bright enough to bounce off the walls and illuminate the living space without the need of electricity.
There is also the finality of the move to consider. We refuse to end up in a fucking Old Farts Home. So this is the Final Move. We will die wherever we end up.
We lived in an apartment for a year, we "owned" a home in Billerica, MA for 7 years, we have lived here for 36 years; now we are heading towards the Final Stop. That is fucking heavy to consider.
The implications of this move are dripping with death.
Fuck it. If a move is in the cards we will do it, settle in, and eat lots of lasagna and drink lots of wine.
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