“True metamorphosis doesn’t come with flowcharts.” — David Mitchell, “The Bone Clocks”

“Oh, shit!”  This has been my first thought upon waking for the last few days.  “What the hell have I wrought?  Is it too late to change my mind? Why did I ever think this was a good idea?  I am my own worst enemy!”

My beloved home has been sold.  Soon strangers will be sorting my personal belongings, pricing them and staging them for sale.  Then, a shit-ton more strangers will traipse through my inner sanctum, pawing at and sucking up the treasures of my life.  There will be a period of homelessness between the house closing and paying the balance owed on the RV.  Then another couple of strangers will live in the Atomic Abode.  LIVE in it!

WTF?

In a slight state of panic, I add to the pile of things to keep. What if I NEED that?  Set it aside now, or it will be gone forever!

For effing ever.

In keeping with old habits and behaviors I strive to change (part of the reason I am making this transition), but now mentally packaged as well-deserved comfort with a dash of self-medication, I’m eating more fast food, having that extra glass of wine, and  … shopping.

“Shopping!” you cry with dissapointment.  “What could you be shopping for?  You have all you need, and more.  Isn’t this a quest to divest yourself of worldly possessions, to live more simply and more honestly?”

Oh, believe me, I can always find something to buy.  Every life event is a shopping opportunity.  Funeral?  Little black dress.

A mop, an occasional table, a tiny coffee maker, a rubber vase for flowers – I justify it all.  The switcheroo from sticks and bricks to RV requires compact, nesting, shatter-proof, BPA-free, folding, multi-functional, quick-drying, self-adhesive, road-worthy, light-weight, collapsible, stowable …. shite.

Today my mom Maria observed, “The period after change is pretty easy.  It’s the change itself that’s hard.”  Werewolves immediately came to mind.  Think “American Werewolf in London” or any werewolf-y story that appeals to you.  During the transition there is pure torment – the expansion of flesh and ripping of clothing, elongation of limbs and features, sprouting of claws and fur and fangs.

I’m experiencing some growing pains, and they ain’t pleasant.