When I was a teen and twenty-something, I thought my ideal match would be a military doctor, like my father was when I was little. I enjoyed moving when I was a child, and had not been bothered by it to that point. Well, as a "forty year old woman" (channeling Daddy there--he always rounded up his age, much to Mums' irritation, because they shared exactly the same birthdate) I have concluded the following: MOVING SUCKS!!! I'd never had "real" furniture before, or books, or a kitchen full of dishes. It is such a colossal pain in the buns to get a household's worth of belongings taken safely from one state to another. It's done, now. My belongings are still in boxes, but mainly in the rooms they will eventually occupy. But I still have to get trash and water in my name, switch my car tags, and send out my new address to my friends and acquaintances. The tougher part of the job is done, and I will be sooo very relieved when I can finally say, "I'm home," and have my cat waiting for treats when he hears my car pull up in the driveway.
My short trip to Georgia (Wednesday-Friday) to get the 1200+ lbs. of books out of the garage and the floors cleaned and covered with rugs went well. My mother can now walk through the house without worrying about bruising her extremities (though now she says she is suffering a case of rug envy--I do have a nice assortment!). On Thursday, with the help of her "all purpose teenager" Bill, we got my cast iron bed together and my extraordinarily heavy wooden clothes cabinet upstairs. I made the error of selecting the Gary Shteyngart book The Russian Debutante's Handbook as my audiobook for the trip--I knew he was a great, funny writer, one of those people whose neat, brief observations of the telling oddities of humanity make you laugh and nod knowingly, "Exactly--I've seen someone do that very thing!" And you can't but admire the lucid beauty of his prose. But reading the RDH turned out to be a lot like visiting an exhibition of Robert Mapplethorpe's more controversial photographs; while you couldn't help but admire the mastery of technique, the content was almost viscerally repulsive, and after a dozen or so perfectly-worded chapters describing sexual encounters and the wet dreams of a pitiable intercultural misfit, I couldn't stomach anymore and turned to the almost as frustrating challenge of seeking a decent radio station. Nine hundred miles of the "seek" function, and the same dreck blaring out of the speakers mile after mile after mile.
I don't know that when I was younger if I would have been able to cope comfortably with my sudden popularity among the male set over the last eight days. In that interval, I have been asked out by three men, all of whom are pleasant and none of whom are eligible in any real sense--two because they aren't believers, and the third because he is a smoker. I have accepted invitations from the former two for the reason that they have been diverting, and because with my impending departure I will be in no way tempted to prolong a relationship. For instance, today I went to the Washington Redskins-San Diego Chargers football game at FedEx Field, the first NFL game I've ever attended. The 'skins managed to eke out a win in overtime. I gracefully and firmly squelched the flirty invitation of my date to sleep with him (Sheesh!)--despite teasing of this nature, if was a pleasant afternoon, if only for the people-watching opportunities, starting with the rabid blonde in an RG III jersey next to me, who spent half the time swearing at the team's incompetence, and the other half clutching her hand to her heart, in agony (along with much of the hometown crowd) that they were going to let yet another win slip from their grasp. There were pennants and burgers and beer in the parking lot, where tailgaters were dancing in the driving lanes, and an ambulance poised on the sidewalk with the discouraging notice "not in service" permanently stenciled on its side door. Merry and his wife, with whom I sat in church this morning, were just two sections over from us, in the sunnyside nosebleed section. My small purse was deemed too large to be admitted to the stadium, so I had to make do with the few items I could stuff in my pockets. Altogether, it was a seven-hour event, and afterwards I was too tired to go to dinner, begging off to get home to rest.
Maybe my curious attractiveness of late to members of the opposite sex will extend overseas, and my LDC will actually agree to Skype with me...