Well, I did it.

Contrary to all of my promises to myself, I moved again. The last time (just a year ago) I vowed to myself, my children and my friends that I would never move again. (Crossing my fingers and whispering, “Maybe.”) It was a promise I meant to keep. But … a super opportunity landed softly at my feet, and here I am again.

Surrounded by boxes, lots of big black bags and 10,000 small plastic bags, I am reclining in my La-Z-Boy as I contemplate all I have accomplished in the past two weeks. Quite an impressive list, I believe, considering my age and current aches and pains. Quite a few more aches, a few spectacular bruises and just a smidgen of a return of the aching back I frequently get from underestimating my own strength and endurance.

I can finally walk across my kitchen floor without stepping over something waiting on the floor to be put away. I have found a home for every pot, bowl and cookie sheet.

Must be something genetic that makes us assume that the way we do it suits our karma. Doesn’t everyone put the glasses on the right side of the cabinet over the sink and cups on the left?

Now, the bedroom is a totally different story. I approach it, only to change my clothes and go to bed, where I sleep the sleep of the just. No alarm clock, just the bright light of morning in my room, assuring me that I have slept another night through.

That room is for when the public areas of the house are ready for company. I have already met several neighbors, from young, strong fellows to another senior enjoying the sunshine on the porch in the afternoon. I gaze lovingly out of my living room window at a dogwood tree outside my front door, waving its budding blossoms over my porch. Daffodils are blooming along the sidewalk, and the dogs next door just give me a cursory woof when I come outside.

Spring is a wonderful time to move.

It didn’t rain this time, unlike the week that I moved when the rain from hell came down every day, postponing pickup truck moves for days – then a week. This time, by the time I got everything moved, I needed two days to recuperate, and then I was able to get going on the unpacking, which everyone said, “Do it slowly. It’s not going anywhere.”

For someone with a do-it-right-now personality, it’s hard to turn the adrenaline down and sit after every box is unpacked. But it is working. I’ve been able to put things where I want them, and I don’t foresee much changing around with living.

The morning I could make my own coffee without a daily visit to Krispy Kreme was a morning to celebrate with a sugar-drenched doughnut. The day I could take my morning medications without a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast was a real treat. Supper was a fast-food takeout, and lunch was something I noted in passing. Today I had a real omelet, a peanut butter sandwich for lunch and a salad for supper.

Today I plugged in all of the necessary kitchen toys and relished the empty, clean floor. Maybe tomorrow I will actually cook something other than an omelet.

I’ve finally put away enough in the “pantry” to be able to wash some clothes and wear something other than jeans and a sweatshirt. Maybe I’ll even go to church this weekend in real clothes, not throw-me-ons. I’ll even wear a hat and redeem my reputation as The Hat Lady of St. Anne.

Whoo-hee! Uptown lady returns. With the aid of my quad cane, I might even click my heels. Like Dorothy, I realize there’s no place like home.

Citizen Columnist Kay Fowler Schweers, the Artful Codger, is the mother of seven, grandmother of eight and great-grandmother of five. She lives gratefully alone and continues to downsize while she buys and reads yet another book.