Getting There

So what possibly could keep me from my romantic notion of Prague?
What stands in the way of me moving and taking up residence in one of the most beautiful baroque cities on Earth if that's what I've a mind to do?

In a word: logistics.

Between me and the Charles Bridge stands the work of fixing up my home, selling my possessions, and executing my home sale. Hands-on, concrete stuff!

I can do hands-on, concrete stuff, honest, I can. In the past, daughter #1 would always help move me. She could pack a moving box that would exhibit the grace of a Bento Box. Daughter #1 is grown up and gone.

I live in the world of ideas. Hands-on concrete stuff seems like a lot of work without the fun. My feminist self is secure enough to wish I could just punt on leading this effort and defer to my imaginary husband who tells me what to do! But oh, there's a problem. He's imaginary. I guess I have to lead after all. Ugh.

I don't think I'll every own this much stuff again.