My washer sounds the same here, swishing away, as it did at the other place. I listened to it this afternoon and remembered that, just a short time ago, I had another life. It was not happier; but it was sure easier.
I contemplated the "happy vs. easy" conundrum while negotiating with Simon on the phone this morning, en route back to Salt Lake from a camping trip. No, I can't air the camping gear at the old place. I pointed out that his driveway and garden hose would sure make scrubbing and rinsing the cooler and the dry box easier. And that he has abundant space to hang the tent, the fly and the sleeping bags to air.
I tried, "We want to take care of the gear, right?"
I tried, "But we're keeping the gear there anyway..."
Turns out that, as of that moment, it all became MY gear. So I had better deal with its maintenance, and tough luck about the difficult clean-up. I should have thought of that when I moved out into a little apartment. Uh... yeah. The well-being of the camping gear was paramount for me at all times.
The sudden outbreak of large camping items caused a moment of weakness. I admit that I flopped on my belly across the bed and snuffled in my pillow. The washer's "Foomp, foomp, foomp" reminded me of better days. Well, not better days. But an epoch in my life that I might someday look back on and call, "The Days of Storage".