Cheap Psychotherapy

So in light of my ulcer-creating anxiety about our might-be-happening move, I have been plumbing the depths of my psyche trying to figure out why I have such trouble with change and why I would cling, barnacle-like, to a house that we have clearly outgrown and which gives me fits on a daily basis. All I can come up with is this:

We moved a lot when I was a kid.

I'm not going to throw my hat in the ring with Army brats and migrant workers -- we didn't move that much -- but we did move around a bit and often at crucial times in my life when not moving would have been preferable. We moved twice before I was 6, both times within the same city. Then we moved to a different city in the same state when I was 7. Then at age 13 we changed school districts, though not houses. The real whopper was between my junior and senior years of high school when we moved halfway across the country. Then my parents moved again (old state, new city) between my junior and senior year of college, so my last summer home was one in which I had absolutely no social life whatsoever because I flat out didn't know a single soul and couldn't see a lot of point in getting to know anyone since I was only going to be there 2 1/2 months. In retrospect, I probably should have stayed in Minneapolis, where I was in school, but since I was coming off a semester abroad and had no money, going home seemed like the best (cheapest) option. Also, my parents insisted. I had a couple of forced-moves after college, both times because my duplex was sold. And then I got laid off in the Great Teacher Layoff of 1994 and ended up moving states yet again to find work.

I don't really like moving.

I think this is at the root of my problem. That, and the fact that I have worked for 10 years on this house and feel like I have finally achieved a sense of my own style (however obscured by clutter that style may be) and I am reluctant in the extreme to a)start over on a new house and b) live in a house redolent of someone else's taste.

And yes, I am a picky little twink, as I'm sure my husband would tell you if I ever let him touch my blog. Which I won't. Ever.

I worry, too, about my garden. No one moving in to this house is going to know what I know about it, or care like I do about all my goofy plants. I mention this to Tim and he gives one of those snorts -- the snorts that mean "too damn right, no one's gonna care!" -- and then he says "and don't think you're having a garden like this in any new house. It's too big and flowers cost money." Which of course makes me want to smack him. What if the shoe were on the other foot? It might look something like this:

"And don't think there'll be any football in the new house. Football is right off the menu."
"What? You don't mean that."
"I most certainly do. Look what a mess it's made of things. Too much of it and no time to get it all watched. No more. I'm not having it."
"But that's not fair! You can't just say 'No football.' You're not God, you know. It makes me happy. How can you not want me to be happy?"
"Sometimes we have to make sacrifices for the family. Football's a luxury."
"Not college football, that's practically free."
"No way. I know how this goes. One little college game here, then it's a little NFL behind my back, then we're knee deep in Fox Sports and ESPN. Forget it."
"I just need to see the uniforms, the bright colors, the mascots. Just a few mascots and some halftime analysis"
"I don't see it happening. I mean, you've got enough to do without that complicating things. Let it go."
"You bastard! You selfish bastard!"

Or something like that. I'm just guessing.

Wow, did I get off the point. But here's the real thing. If I don't start sleeping soon, I'm going to have to call the whole thing off just so I can stop being so crazy.