Moving into my smaller townhouse, I didn't listen to me either.
I looked for a smaller place to live for almost a full year. At the beginning, I had lofty dreams of eat-in kitchens, cathedral ceilings, clubhouses with fitness centers and swimming pools. As the months passed and the house didn't sell for the price my realtor assured me it would, I came back to reality and assessed what I really needed-one closet big enough for my shoes and one for the vacuum cleaner. When I stressed over figuring out if I could bring a favorite piece of furniture not knowing if it would fit, people suggested "Just sell it and buy something new" as if the checkbook magically added extra zeros to my paltry paychecks. (Here I insert my "I wish I had listened to the nuns and become a teacher so I'd be retired with a pension and not just a bunch of fashionable shoes" rant.)
I opened my search area, and found a cute, end-unit in a town that when I told them, some people turned their noses up. It borders a couple of towns that are being revitalized but have sketchy histories. It recently gained notoriety from an Inside Edition piece about a murder in this "sleepy little seashore town" which is OK, because the sleepy little shore town I just left was featured on a 48 Hours episode about a murder as well. Watching the newer piece, I was happy to see that the police department had compassion for everyone including the victim's dog. Anyway, all it needed was a paint job and some closet remakes. It was owned by son #3's grade school teacher so I felt an immediate connection. And best of all, it's just a long dog walk to a beautiful beach.
This past Saturday, I took the dog for our first long walk. Just him and I, no phone to interrupt our exploring and met a few new neighbors including two with shepherds. We got back home only to find the following scenario: Front door: Locked, and "someone" forgot her keys. Deck door: Locked. Basement windows: Barred and locked. Garage Door: Only works from the outside if the interior light is left on. Kitchen window: Too high to climb into.
I did the only thing I could think of-walked to the police station where two nice officers called my son at work and scared the Bejezus out of him: "Hi, this Officer X of the police department. Don't be alarmed, but we have your mother and dog here." Oh to have seen my son's face when he got that call.
At least the dog was well behaved-he must have remembered how the officers treated the pup in the TV murder show. And one of them was my attorney's secretary's son and he already knew about me. The Village Idiot was welcomed to the neighborhood.
Last week, I vowed not to buy anything new for this place until I Marie Kondo'd the condo clutter. This week, I bought house keys for everyone who won't get annoyed if I do it again. Because I'm afraid if I do and need the police again, they're going to suggest that I move to a nice safe place like Wrinkle City.
And I can't face downsizing again.