The Perils of Living Small

Let me tell you what I didn't think about when I decided to downsize:  I didn't think about what I would do with the 16 pairs of shoes that don't fit into my closet. I didn't foresee watching my brand-new, full-sized mattress drive away in the back of the delivery truck because the box spring was too large to fit up my staircase. And I definitely did not expect to spend months sifting through old photo albums deciding which pictures could stay and which no longer fit. The photo albums that moved with me to my tiny little house in the city -- more than a dozen of them -- have magnetic pages and plastic sleeves.  They are big and bulky and heavy, and I simply don't have the room to store them safely here.  But that doesn't mean I don't want them. I have given away or sold so much of what defined me in my old life. I've shipped or stowed the things that mattered to my kids, and given everyone an opportunity to keep the things that matter most to them.  But what about the pieces of my past that I can't bear to part with, but don't have room for anymore? These photos chronicle the lives of my children from birth through college graduation. There are pictures of me before I had laugh lines, and pictures of my parents, alive and happy -- and young -- younger than I am now.  I had to hang on to these; I don't want to forget. The solution I came up with is that my ex-husband gets custody of the albums -- but not until I got a chance to go through each of them to choose the pictures that remind me most of the life I loved.  It took months. I spent the summer coming home from work to piles of photos, slowly sifting through albums, picking out the photos that make me smile, and tossing out (or leaving in albums) the doubles, the extraneous, the people who've chosen to ignore me because I chose a different life. It was grueling work, and most evenings, I would cry my way through the pages. But it felt good. Pictures allow you to relive things, and so much of my life has been worth reliving.  In the fall, I handed over the albums to my ex-husband. But under my bed, in six small photo boxes, are the pictures that I've kept to remind me of all that I've accomplished, and all that still remains to be done.  I call them Part I.

Not really a blogger

First off, I am really not a blogger. But in the two weeks since I moved into this tiny, little townhouse in the city, at least six people have suggested I get a cat, offered to give me a cat, or asked me when I was getting a cat.  Last night it happened again: at a gathering of friends from my old neighborhood, the speculation about my cat-owning future began anew. And so this morning I woke up wanting -- really wanting -- to let everyone out there know that I do not want a cat. OK? I'll say it one more time: I DO NOT WANT A CAT -- REALLY! Now it's documented; if anyone ever asks me again, I'll just direct them to my blog. At the very least it will give me a chance to change the subject -- or run away. 
I find myself wondering why anyone would think I would want a pet at this stage of my life.  Yes, I live alone -- or at least I will when my youngest son leaves for college in the fall.  And yes, it is a bit quiet around here...but I'm not sure that will be a problem. After spending 28 years raising children and trying to define where my kids' lives ended and mine began, I think I'm ready for a little quiet. So today, I'm celebrating my first holiday alone in my new home: the 4th of July, 2011...Independence Day. Go figure.