So. It finally happened. This morning I blurted, "I wish we were already moved."
A lovely relocation opportunity came to our way months ago and the anticipation grew and heightened and became reality. A frenzy of sorting and discarding and packing ensued. We spruced up the interior and the exterior and the yards. We explored a new town and secured a new living space. O, the excitement!
We have remained largely in the excitement car of this emotional roller coaster with our hands high above our heads, but this morning I want off the ride. And what, pray tell, turned the tide?
I used the last drop of shampoo this morning.
Quit mocking me! Stop laughing!
Three MONTHS ago we would have ordinarily purchased a replacement bottle of shampoo and put it in the cupboard against the day when the half-empty shampoo bottle was entirely empty.
But in the name of using up what we have and not obtaining more because we don't want to have to pack and move anything that is not essential, we assessed and determined no replacement shampoo was necessary. Our needs for shampoo are rather modest anyway, and we could make this half-bottle stretch.
Three WEEKS ago we began carefully rationing the last quarter of an inch of shampoo calculated to carry us right up to Moving Day when we could gleefully toss the empty bottle and be on our merry way with bouncing, shining tresses. I even did the trick where you add a bit of water to the bottle and swirl it around to thin the shampoo ever so slightly.
Earlier this week I could tell we were perilously close to empty, but we were also perilously close to being in our new home in our new town where we could obtain fresh supplies at our new grocery store. So I proceeded with due caution.
Gentle reader: I sit before you now with dripping hair and heavy heart facing a week in which I must be well-groomed and professionally-attired and cheerfully helpful. I CANNOT shampoo my hair with bar soap or dish soap. I suppose I could go next door and explain my plight to Gloria and beg a tablespoon to get me through the week. But instead I will drag myself, utterly defeated, around the corner to Tar-Jey and buy the *&%$ bottle of shampoo I should have bought three months ago.
I have years of experience and worldly wisdom. I have counseled others to go gently and be prepared for the inevitable moment in every move when the joy entirely dissipates and you are left with little more than dogged determination to see the thing through.
I just did not expect the last drop of shampoo to be the final insult for me. And no one can predict what the final insult will be for you. Just let it come and do what must be done.
But for heaven's sake, and in the interest of good hygiene and good mental health, be sure your shampoo supply is adequate.