Really I’m not a broken record

I have a new friend where I live who also writes a blog. But she writes everyday – something, I’m sorry to say, I won’t commit to. Plus she adds great illustrations, news topics, trivia questions, and a daily puzzle. This I must say is one fun blog even when she asks pointed questions about the new mask directives and discusses why she doesn’t watch the Olympics. And it’s not all that serious. She even recommended buying a pair of shoes like her latest ones. Yes, I’m going to buy a pair.

Here’s her blog address:  Joyce@joyceswhatsupblog.com    I hope you’ll check it out!

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As for me, well, I’m like a broken record. I keep writing and writing about the same old thing – my moving and how I’m feeling about it. Though I hope this latest piece  is a little more optimistic.

Writing Group Prompt: Write about your comfortable space and what draws you to it or the reverse:

Supposedly when I moved to my new apartment in Playa Vista I was moving to a more comfortable space. Leaving my big home in Manhattan Beach where I felt like I was bouncing off the empty walls was a huge chore. Like I told one of my friends, it seemed like I gave half of my life away in doing so.

So I’ve now been in this new space for not quite four weeks and I’m still not comfortable. Sure, the furniture and the stuff that I saved from demolition fit well. I’ve met some very nice people, they feed me a lot of good food, and they give me the choice to participate in their long menu of activities or not.

It doesn’t look like there should be a problem at all.

Except there is. All that good stuff doesn’t take away the loneliness, the missing, the need for close companionship. I had Bob in my life for over fifty years. This new so-called comfortable space cannot make up for that. It never will.

Funny. I look at men in a whole new way these days. I wonder if I’d ever want a close friendship with one ever again. I wonder if any of the old men I see here could take Bob’s place in my bed. Right now, I think not. That wouldn’t make me feel any more comfortable than I feel now.

One of my new friends said of the men who live here, “They are either married or stooped over.” So there are few or no pickings.

Grumpy old man.

As I see it, the only way I’ll find my comfortable space is getting used to my new life and finding comfort in myself. I suspect that will take a while. Or maybe it will never happen. I just have to be open to however it turns out.