Zombie in a closet. That would be me. A woman of considerable means, except for financial, who has stepped into an age, a condition, a situation, that could be considered a nightmare. A minor nightmare in the scheme of things, unless you are living it. Again. Like, for the 5th time or something.
I'm living in a closet. My mother's closet. Well, it's a tiny room the size of a closet. And it is my closet because I've squeezed everything I own into it, with stuff stashed as invisibly as possible in her not that big at all house. I should rent a locker or something, but who's going to throw money out the window on a locker. A lot fits in her attic. Four racks of clothes line the wall behind her living room sofa, hoping to melt into the background.
"My" room left about two feet around the bed, so I folded up the futon and sleep on something small-sofa size. Mom's stuff occupies the closet in the closet because, you know, she has never worn the same thing twice, and she needs three closets. So I've invented a clothes storage system that climbs the walls. Ikea's cheapest inventions,believe me. And in the middle of this closet sits a little round table with a lamp - my only dumping ground. I've got a TV in the corner, but it only gets Amazon Prime movies, and I've watched all nine of the free ones, so it just sits there. Actually, there is a nice movie of raindrops in a forest that I could play every once in a while. Nice in combination with a movie of a fire in a fireplace, snapping twigs and all.
Except for the scads of Eileen Fisher garments in my possession, t's a monk's existence.
And speaking of God, how did this happen.
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