Yesterday was moving day. I’ve moved around a lot in my life, but the older I get, the harder it gets. Our economy being what it is, I found myself forced to move 80 mile west of where I was living.
I’m up in the mountains. I like the mountains.
It’s a small town. I like small towns.
It’s a town with old-world european flavor. I like that, too.
My home was built in 1900. I like that. (see cons also!)
In order to afford to live, even frugally, and save a bit of money, I had to move to a “less desirable” area of this town.
I live in a 111 year-old home that has been converted to a duplex. While I have plenty of space, the walls are paper-thin and my neighbor has two children and a boyfriend with whom she apparently fights; frequently.
Since no one has lived in my home in almost a year (my landlord refused to rent to “just anyone,” my neighbor has not felt the need to control her children, since there was no one next door whose aural sensibilities needed consideration. Today I awoke to much screaming, crying, yelling, dragging about of things, and in general, noise that goes well beyond that which could be deemed a tolerable level.
Still, I’m fortunate. I’m tired, emotionally and physically, but I’m lucky. My family helped me move and my brother; the man with two bad knees, moved my furniture AGAIN.
It’s a lonely existence for right now because I don’t know anyone in this town. That’s okay – I’ll figure it out.
The kitchen is minuscule, the stairs to my second floor are so steep as to be almost vertical. The full attic compensates for that. So does the rent. I live in a state that has one of the highest costs of living in the nation. Thanks to my former company, USG, who transferred me up here on a salary barely feasible for South Carolina, where they hired me, I’ve had to learn to live without luxuries – you know the things – brand name toothpaste, rationing shampoo by diluting it with water, and buying food boxes from the local food charity.
That’s okay, I eat. Some don’t. I’m glad to be gone from USG. Good riddance to bad rubbish. If all americans would simply stop and ask themselves who they are truly helping by working in their drone-like jobs for Corporate America, we might, again, be a nation built on free enterprise, full of people who do things about which they are passionate. It won’t happen though. Corporate america pays just enough to make Americans feel the illusion of safety. Shrug.
Me? I will make it. I’m strong. I have skills and gifts outside that which corporate America used to parsimoniously pay me for. I’m going to use those skills and to quote Katie Scarlett O’Hara: “As God is my witness, I’ll never go hungry again!”
(ever gone hungry? I have – and recently. I can tell you it ain’t pleasant.)