Now that I have two feet firmly planted in California, I’ve decided it’s time to spruce up my nest. When we moved here five years ago, I walked through my house just once for maybe ten minutes and decided “yes I could live here.”
My realtor showed me the house because the street had a quirky sounding name, turns out to be one of the best fits, house-wise for us ever. It’s a truly special feeling being in the right place at the right time, isn’t it?
Normally, I like to move, changing houses does me good. I once moved from one apartment to another two doors down. In my defense, it was from a flat to a townhouse, but anyone who saw me pushing my grandmother’s old upright piano down the sidewalk to its new home did think I was a little crazy.
Five years in my house here in California makes me want to spend five more. I must be getting old. My body feels its age at times, but in my mind I a still a young girl, no matter how much the mirror disagrees with me. My eighty year old mother-in-law told me that sometimes she looks in the mirror and wonders whose face that is looking back at her.
My mind will always be young, even if at times my body seems to be betraying me. A fresh coat of paint is a part of my sprucing up plan. I could hire someone to do it, but for some reason, I hate paying for something that I can do myself, plus I am picky and would rather look at my own best effort than someone else’s, that is until yesterday.
After spending hours painting my guest room, my shoulder started tightening up and hurting. When I finally stopped I heard it saying loudly and clearly “I can only go so far, don’t take me for granted.” Normally, I am not that good at listening, but today, I’m emailing my friends to get referrals for a good painter.
If my body is kind enough to fire a few warning shots over the bow, I think I'd better listen up and pay attention.
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