Two and a half years into our condo-life, and I still feel like a new bride. I fuss around and move the tables an inch or two in each direction; I open the blinds and the curtains so I can get a good luck at the way the colours do or don't complement each other; I spend time gazing at the cups that came with our new set of dishes, loving the soft squareness and the blue vaguely oriental design; I wish every day that my parents could have come here to see the way Dave and I live together---the warm moments, the dull ones, the ohmigod!we'reactuallyaloneheretogether ones.
I wonder if I should have opted for brushed silvery-looking appliances instead of white ones, and I agonize over the various scratches and scuffs. That doesn't last long, the agonizing, as I realize it's kind of comfortable to have a less-than-pristine look to the place.
Strangely, now that we're four or five years away from the trauma of downsizing, I still miss some things, and catch myself touching, with both sadness and pleasure, pieces of pottery and cushions and chairs that have ended up in my kids' places.
And I still leave the shower door open for the cat that has been gone for over a year.