Camping in My Condo

I wrote a few days back about being in the Middle Muddle, trying to close out all the details of the life I am leaving here in San Diego and getting everything in place for my move to British Columbia.  I wrote about the uncertainty, or muddle, of being in this liminal place between worlds.

For the last few weeks, since all my furniture was moved out and renovations were finished  at my place, I have been perching in my partner Dan’s condo.  I had stayed there before  for weeks at a time when my condo was rented while I was Living Travelly, so this is  nothing new, or even all that unusual. I am really fine living out of a suitcase (or in this case a cardboard box and a little room in a closet).  In fact I am pretty much fine wherever I am, which is a good thing, because tonight I find myself back in my sparkling, good-as-new condo sleeping on the cushion from the bay window in an entirely empty bedroom. Here is a photo of my temporary lap of luxury.

“Covid doth make campers of us all,” Shakespeare might have said, but since he’s not here, I’ll say it for him. The reason for this unexpected return is that Dan was feeling headachy and stuffed up yesterday, and though we are in the same space all day, somehow the idea of spending the night as close as people are in a shared bed just seemed like an invitation to a heavy dose of whatever it is he has. So I stayed here last night. This evening Dan feels maybe a little better, maybe the same, but no worse.  No fever. No body aches, no nothing except what might be no more than seasonal allergies. Nevertheless, we thought a second night of caution was called for, so here I am.  We’re both pretty sure it’s not Covid, but the jitters can come on in an instant at even the thought.

it’s funny how I can turn into a quivering blob of freak-out about the idea of getting this disease, when overall I don’t consider myself to be a worrier or timid about facing life. Maybe it’s because being on the verge of something new has made me realize how much I don’t want my options taken away. Soon, I’ll be sleeping in a succession of unfamiliar beds as I make my way north, and the place I find to live will be filled with things that aren’t mine.  So for now, I will just sit in the quiet of this empty room, thinking of this as a moment when my past has been cleared away, and my future remains as blank as this room, but waiting to be filled by whatever my new life turns out to be.