Picking out my Future

"It is strange that the years teach us patience; that the shorter our time, 

the greater our capacity for waiting." 

Elizabeth Taylor
 

This past week I’ve been touring condos on the annual Parade of Homes. I can’t say that I like the new trends in home décor but it doesn’t matter, I don’t plan to buy brand new next spring when I’m ready to move. Ideally, I’ll buy something 5-6 years old where I won’t feel guilty about replacing carpeting and wall colors to something more in my desired color palette. Did I mention that I hate dark brown floors and brown marble countertops? Call me crazy. Call me old fashioned. I still like the ‘light and airy’ look. I dream of beach cottage décor and pastels.

On one hand it seems strange to be planning a new life in a new location that will entail leaving behind many of the things in our present home that represent a blending of tastes and years of joint decisions. On the other hand, the artist in me is looking forward to building a new ‘nest’ and hopefully a new life that sheds the loneliness that Don’s passing understandably dumped in my lap.

I just discovered I have mole growing deep inside my belly button. Don’t ask me how. It’s a long story. Since I’ve already had a couple of cancerous moles removed I suppose I should get this one checked out before my ‘innie’ becomes an ‘outie.' It would be embarrassing to have my obituary read: Cause of death---belly button gone wild. Since Don’s death I’ve become somewhat paranoid about my own death coming sooner rather than later. If I died in this house, for example, no one would notice until the mail carrier couldn’t stuff one more thing in the box and then she’d probably think I was on vacation and rudely forgot to notify the post office. I don’t want to be that old person you read about in the newspaper whose dog ate the corpse because there wasn’t anything else eatable left in the house. I don’t want to be the person who slides off the highway into a river and isn’t discovered until their license plate is too rusty to read. A condo in a Baby Boomer community, I’m thinking, will resolve all those worries because there is bound to be a least one nosy neighbor near-by who will memorize my comings and goings and start asking questions when I don’t show up. Who knew having a nosy neighbor could serve a useful purpose.

One of the condos I looked at had a to-die for patio that was totally private. Along the tall white fencing was an area where I could plant stuff, have a bird bath and other things to entertain the dog. He loves to decapitate pansies and pick the potted strawberries on my deck and chase the birds away that are dying of thirst. I want a condo patio like that but alas I must wait until my period of mourning is up. That’s the rule: don’t make any big changes until you’re a year out from your spouse’s passing. I know that’s good advice and after a lifetime of following the rules of life I’m not going to go start ignoring them now. So while I wait and plan and dream I will continue meditating while contemplating my navel. Oh, crap! That reminds me I have to call the dermatologist tomorrow. ©

 "...If we learn to think of it as anticipation, as learning, as growing, 

if we think of the time we spend waiting for the big things of life as

an opportunity instead of a passing of time, what wonderful horizons open out! " 

 Ann Neagle

P.S. The photo above is of a print I just bought to inspire the color palette for my next house.