I tagged along with some talented women who were lunching at Moosewood today. One of them just returned from a sabbatical on the road in a Class B; she has a blog. Hi Barbara! I'm so glad I accepted the invitation. And spoke. I need to remember to keep doing that.
And the others: mashed mud? Hardly. Just not RVers. I'll talk more about them in my other blog, Great Therapists and Town Clerks I Have Known.
I'm going back to see if there are interior shots of their B. Annie and I are still tempted by the smaller rigs, but we were won over by a B Touring Cruiser we cruised at Camping World. Really more of a tiny Class C, but more spacious than the B's we've looked at. That's all harmless envy, because we've got the rig and it's loaded for duck.
So, I've got to just say it here and be done with it. I'm grieving my stuff. It had to happen, I knew it would happen, I expected it to happen, and it happened. I can say it here because you people won't chide me for mourning, even if the grief is for mere stuff. Grief is not always what it looks like. My therapist would say that I'm not really grieving a carload of unnecessary possessions, but a little of every other loss I've never completely grieved. Don't pshaw; you do it, too. Have you ever said, I don't know why I'm crying. It's just a stupid vase? You may have shattered a vase, and you may have liked the vase. But, it's also the dog you lost this summer who was 14 and your layoff you thought you were over and the fight you had with your husband when he stormed out and for a while you thought it might really be over.
My son is 23 today.
And ... you just witnessed my epiphany. Stop averting your eyes.