I was at the Post Office last week. The person at the window next to me asked the clerk, “What do I need to do to change my address?” He said, “Move.”
For the longest time I followed in my Dad’s shoes (not really, his would be way too small) and moved to a different house, city or state. I just grew restless often. My family stopped trying to keep up with the new addresses and phone numbers. It’s a good thing I never went to Mexico as a drug mule for a cartel, botched it and ended up being held prisoner. No one would have known to even look.
I have lived in five states and 40 different dwellings since venturing out on my own. I know! I finally bought a Uhaul truck and kept a moving crew on retainer. It’s crazy, but those who know me well won’t be surprised. It has sort of fit my lifestyle and is probably one of the reasons why I am ill now. We’ve been at our current residence for nearly four years and we’ll stay here until we finally make it out to the southeast to be closer to our kids and grandkids.
In the meantime, I get weekly calls from the IRS, Post Office and DMV, all wanting to know if I have moved and I text my friends and family every day with this simple message, “Still here.”