I get restless when I haven't moved in a while, haven't picked up, packed up, and turned a designer's eye to a new space. I long for the home I'll sink my roots into and die in, but I knew this one was never going to be that place. This one was a stop-gap after Smith, a necessary bunker while my kids finished school. The walls are so thin here you can join in on a conversation two rooms down. It makes eavesdropping more of an unavoidable activity than a stealth one. And as hard as I tried, there's just no way to transform a 1950's raised-ranch into a a cozy, colorful, funky home. The best we could go for was "Classic Claustrophobic and Cluttery".
Just not my style.
And yet I find my heart breaking with every box sealed with tape and added to the pile. The next place will not be entirely my own. It will be the end of an era, neatly situated as I personally turn over my 4th decade.