Having been un or under-employed for the past two years, being turned down for jobs I so was over-qualified for it wasn’t funny and retreating far too much, it became painfully evident that I had to sell my beloved “Red Shack.” My safe place, all my own with none of the chaos I lived with prior. Just mine.

Now not. Had an accepted offer two weeks after listing and if all goes as it seems, I will be out of here. Yikes. It’s going too fast.

I am “reseting” my entire life. This house was the last place I saw my father alive. It was the last place I had my two dogs, and then one, and then none. I feel like I am leaving them behind. Along with a piece of myself.

When I bought this house, I was a successful independent business owner. I’ve spent the past couple of years helping others reset their lives by dismantling their houses and contents. Like the shoemaker whose children are barefoot, that’s me right about now. It’s much easier to do for others.

And when my logical brain is working, I know I will find freedom from all of it once it’s done. The endless letters and menacing phone calls and some spiteful satisfaction when they call my land line to hear “this number is no longer in service.”

I called a real estate agent I’d worked with before, and one of her associates is a friend who could use a boost. I hired a lawyer. I put a large group of furniture, table-top, accessories, vintage fashion of value and some art into the hands of an on-line auction group that I’d worked with prior for one of my HomeWorks clients. I asked an Aunt if I could live for the summer in my grandmother’s painting studio on an island that is my spiritual home. As I await the mortgage approval of my potential buyers, I have done or at least scheduled the work projects that are contractually my responsibility.

Should all of this happen as scheduled, I will have two weeks to get out of my house once their mortgage is concrete. Having a house “show ready” at a moment’s notice is a full time job. I renewed my library card so I could go take out books and read while the interlopers were inspecting my medicine cabinet and kicking my proverbial tires. I imagine what I’d take to live out of two suitcases for the summer. What if it gets chilly? What if I’m asked on a date? Should I bring my own towels even though I know there are a pile of them available? Will I end up being a shopgirl that requires something more than cargo shorts and my Fit-flops?

And where will I go next, with most of my belongings in storage? Plus can someone tell me where I hid the document for the state that informed them that the business they want three years of taxes for simply to be registered has been withdrawn in writing for four years? Please advise.