Thumb twiddling

I am so bored. Playing computer solitaire, studying the eyeball for my medical terminology course, and listening to Doc Watson -- that's what it looks like -- but really I am just waiting for an email or phone call from our realtor. We are supposed to hear today whether the couple who is hemming and hawing really do want to purchase our house.

I am overjoyed at the prospect of a buyer, and I am scared out of my mind. I look around me at all the comforts of home. Wah! I'm going to have to do this all over again. Never mind the approach of triple-digit temperatures, cowboy-town Phoenix attitude, dust in my face full of valley fever fungal spores, July and August through-the-roof electric bills, scorched earth landscape, razor-sharp hammer-hard sunbeams, and all the rest of it.

I hate moving. I've forgotten how. I remember when everything I owned fit into my Ford Galaxy. I moved all the time. I never had to clean an oven or a refrigerator. Now, having sat around buying stuff for eleven years and tossing it into corners, moving is an abomination. All that sorting and tossing, packing, loading and hauling, looking for someplace to unpack, deciding which place to unpack, maybe doing it all again? I'm tired already.

But wait! I'll be heading for green and wet, beach and forest, rivers and mountains, city with more of my favorite things, calmer drivers, fewer pickups and SUVs, no more babies and dogs dying in cars every summer, no more burnt feet fetching the mail, no more Sheriff Joe!

It's a good thing. I've been here way too long, stuck in the sand until it feels like home.