Well, actually, the address error has not been entirely resolved. The internet provider and the utility company seem to have accepted the new address and adjusted their records accordingly. The property management company, however, hasn’t shown any willingness to make an address correction. I’m trying to be patient. Perhaps they are still working from home. Perhaps they use a third-party vendor to manage their online content. Perhaps they are kind-hearted simple folk who move at a pace different from my own.
I’m expecting in about six months to get a notice saying, well, Carol, it was really nice of you to pay rent for that other tenant all this time, but when are you going to pay yours? It seems like such a simple thing, to acknowledge the error and resolve it. They may be well-meaning, but from my one-sided perspective, this property management company looks like it is run by a bunch of incompetent nincompoops. I’ve recently noticed a desire to use that word nincompoop in my writing. What do you think? Did I choose the right word?
Just when I seem to be circling the drain, the universe brings me something to chew on, something to occupy my mind and my time so I don’t completely implode. Last week, it was the address error. This week it was getting online. In addition, I’ve had a sizeable editing project, which has kept my mind out of the tailspin and helped me focus on being helpful. It is good to focus on something other than myself. I admit, I have wanted to tear my hair a few times.
I dreamed I was hanging out with Mom at her condo, helping her get organized. She sure had a lot of stuff, in real life, and in the dream. Accumulating stuff seems to be a favorite pastime among some Americans. Having just downsized and moved long distance, I am loathe to accumulate more stuff. Nevertheless, I went to Home Depot and Target and got some things to organize my space. My personal rule is never to buy anything I cannot lift and carry myself, so the things I bought fall into one or more of these three categories: they are small, they are plastic, or they can be disassembled into manageable pieces.
After I got my new shelves set up, I sorted through the contents in the boxes and plastic bins I brought with me in my minivan and shipped in the shipping box. Almost all of my clothes fall into one or more of these three categories: they are torn, they are stained, or they are fleece.
I have distilled my options to one of the following mutually exclusive categories: keep it, donate it, or toss it. I guess I left out a fourth category: set it on fire. In fact, I’m starting to realize that burning it down and starting over is metaphorically pretty much what I’ve done over the past six months. If you strip out the emotion, what I did was efficiently and effectively execute on an action plan I’ve had in place for about five years. No room for grief, no room for fear and anxiety, just sort it out, pack it up, move ‘em out, get it done.
If you are human, though, you know that emotions are sort of like your old dog Sam. It is easy to banish Sam to the backyard and tell him to go pee, but it’s very hard to keep him out there once he remembers that being inside is where the food is. All I can say is, I’ve been dealing with Sam this week.
After muddling through some weepy moments, I eventually reached a point of grace, in which I realized nothing is all bad or all good, that life happens to us all, and whiners never prosper. Once again I have the opportunity to embrace my life philosophy that emotions don’t matter all that much. Only actions actually have some influence on outcomes. Screaming because the property management company has failed to meet my expectations doesn’t hurt them. They clearly don’t care about customer service. Screaming only makes my voice hoarse.
I will continue my action plan: to nudge, poke, prod, remind, and cajole, all the while doing my best to be friendly, courteous, and reasonable.
I don’t need to burn it all down to start over in this new city.
