I need a new place to live, and I need it fast. Okay, well, I can do this. One foot. Then the other. Let’s see what happens. It could be great!
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t do this. I can’t do it. I am not strong enough. If I can’t fucking move my finger to dial the phone, how the hell am I going to move a family? Fuck it. It’s over. We’ll have to live under a bridge, And I’ll keep everything I own in a shopping cart – no, wait, I’ll need two. One for my kid. One for me. I hope we can find a bridge in her school district. FUCK.
Okay. I’ve got two weeks. As my mother used to say, pick up the bobby pin, wash the dish. Just keep moving. Just keep calling. Just keep doing the next right thing, and when I can’t figure out what the hell that is, do the next thing right. Call the phone numbers in the ads. Talk to strangers. Tell them the truth. Ask the hard questions. Do you take pets? Do you care that I have bad credit? Be willing to hear the hard truth; better to know right now. Visit the houses that survive the inquisition. Let the Universe do its thing. Keep an open mind. Keep an open mind. Keep an open mind.
I’ve made a decision. It feels right. I hope it’s right. What if it’s not? Shut up and pack. Just keep packing. Change over the utilities. Forward the mail. Reserve a truck. All these fucking details. I wish I could do this more gracefully.
I am in moving hell, I think to myself. But that’s just for effect. The truth is, I’m really in moving heaven: I have some stuff worth moving. I have lots of help. I have a truck. I even have someone who knows how to drive a truck, thank God. I am in charge of this project. For better or worse, it is proceeding, and I am moving forward.
I am moving forward. Oh, my God. I am moving forward.
Of all my fears – and there have been many – my greatest, my most intractable, has been the fear of moving forward. And here I am. I’m doing it.
Kind of makes me look forward to Chapter Six. It just might be wonderful.