I can declare that I am done with my move. Technically, I was done moving Wednesday, but since then I have been organizing my new living space (see my true definition of moving from last week).
At the age of (almost) 37, I have done what I vowed never to do: I have moved back home. Sort of. When I left the house I grew up in "for good" in August of 1994 (yeah, I know, I was 27 and a little slow, OK?) I assumed that I would never live here again. When I left my retail career in 2002 and more than one person suggested that I might come back here, I laughed and said that I'd just as soon live in a box under Wacker Drive than move back home. That was single-loser-Jim, not Jim-on-a-wedding-deadline-he-absolutely-has-to-leave-sometime talking.
My furniture isn't here; it's getting a thirteen month head start living at my fiance's house, as is my cat. Kristen is very happy with both. So I will reside at my mother's home until the end of April 2005. Mock me as you will, I can take it, but know that this was my idea. Mom was nice enough to think that it was a good idea, though she did remind me of my "Wacker Drive" claim several times.
Things are different than they were in 1994, for sure. There were five other people living her when I left, there is just one now. My father has passed away and my siblings have married. Just about every room has been redecorated, the wood siding has been replaced by aluminum, and there is finally central air. This is not the same place that I grew up in.
But it does still feel like home, at least for thirteen months.