Our neighbor and fellow blogger Amy gets our belated congratulations today, having delivered three weeks ago, at the advanced age of about 87, her 25th child. It is, as Luca Brasi would say, a masculine child, and quite the cutie. Lucky, lucky her. I’m singling her out today, as opposed to three weeks ago, because I liked her use of the Victorian phrase “my time of confinement” during the last weeks of her pregnancy, and I’m going to steal it.
Today we celebrate the end of our time of confinement. After months of bush-beating, my husband has a job, and a good one. In Detroit. Whither thou goest, etc. etc., so we are moving, one of these days. To Detroit. OK, the suburbs. But the metro area. We are leaving the mid-size city for the big one. We are embarking upon a midlife adventure. Maybe we’ll see Eminem at the supermarket. Maybe we’ll get punched in the stands at the Palace. But at least Zingerman’s will only be in the next county, instead of the next state.
We are insane, I thought last night, from approximately 12:34 a.m. to around 2 a.m. That shows you what middle-of-the-night thinking is worth — nothing. Because in the rational light of day, everything about this move makes sense, and everything about our current situation makes none. In the crazy time of the middle of the night, fear reigns. It’s scary to move when you’re middle-aged, to start over in a new place, but we gotta. We haveta. We wanna. Change is good — this is something I learned last year. It’s going to be good. Or at least better.
But before we close on a Michigan house that costs three times more than this one and commands taxes in the 10-times-The Fort range, we have to sell the one we own. Which is why we spent the weekend cleaning like maids on meth — we had our first showing today. I have no idea how it went yet, but I was absurdly pleased yesterday when our Realtor told us not to change a thing about the place, admired how well it “shows” and booked a photographer to take interior shots. Of our decorating! It was like getting an A+ on an exam. Alan spent the day doing a final cleaning and dressing the sets. For example: Last week I idly mentioned something a New York magazine editor told me about the fine art of writing cover lines — nothing spurs newsstand sales like the words “you” and “now.” As in: FIVE CHANGES YOU CAN MAKE NOW TO IMPROVE YOUR LIFE FOREVER — NOW.
In the kitchen, the cookbook holder now holds a book, cover out: “The Best Recipe.” He explained, “I want them to see the words ‘the best’ when they walk through the kitchen.”
It’s subliminal. I assume the heavy artillery — the banana bread-scented candles, “Kind of Blue” murmuring on the kitchen stereo and cut flowers — will come out later.
Alan starts his job up there after Christmas, but I’ll be here until the joint sells and/or we run out of money to sustain a two-household family. I gave notice yesterday, along with another 20-year vet who started the same autumn I did. Forty years of institutional memory will walk out the door hand-in-hand. He’s headed south, I, north. We’re both pretty excited.
Wish us luck or warn us away.