AMEN TO THE WONDER YEARS?

AMEN TO THE WONDER YEARS?                              

         In the blink of an eye, an often teary eye, hubby and I found ourselves no longer married with children. I must emphasize the "with children"; we were still bosom buddies. Now we had sold our empty nest and considered ourselves wkrp in Cincinnati; without kids running perpetually.                    

         The idea to move struck me like a wet mop or maybe it was my friend, Roseanne, actually trying to knock some sense into me. Stinging soap in my eyes and an aching back had given me pause. How often had I grumbled,"Gimme a break", as we cleaned my full house; full of memories, yes, but also full of too many unused rooms and furniture. Although not particularly religious, we'd both thrown our wet, weary arms in the air crying, "Amen!"                                                                                

         After a mind-boggling search through the yellow pages and advice from our "experienced-in-moves" daughters, Kate and Allie, hubby and I had hired a moving firm, B.J. and the Bear. Ideally, the bear wouldn't be pressed into service. I must admit, I had misgivings about perfect strangers packing my belongings. Would they, hopefully, dust my knick knacks?                                                            

         On the day of our mass exodus, I was more confused than usual. Two beaming women rang my doorbell to introduce themselves as Laverne and Shirley. Apparently, they were the a-team, considered the golden girls of household re-location. I know I was bleary eyed, but I wasn't prepared to let the chips fall and scatter where they may or anything else for that matter. I just had to stutter, "Who's the boss? Where's B.J.?"                                                                                                                        

         Seemingly unoffended, the women were quick to quip, "Three's a crowd." Noting my skeptical scowl, they explained. "It's a different world nowadays. Women like us, strong and hard-working, are free to try unconventional careers. There is no B.J. or any man. Well, years ago, we bought the business from a Mr. Belvedere. Don't worry, Coach. Put us in the game."                                                            

         Obviously, I didn't want to appear unenlightened, despite a reference to the male-dominated sport of football. I quashed the niggling voice that had conjured a future visit to night court and legal squabbles. Yes, I agreed, women were more than capable. What could go wrong?                              

         I should never have asked. Laverne and Shirley loaded the big truck without any problems. They assured me they never hurried. After all, their motto was one day at a time. I was the impatient one, the anxious one. Shoving the truck's heavy doors shut, my movers high-fived each other with an "alf". Alf?? They patted me on the shoulder and grinned, "A little full." A little full? What could go wrong? I was about to find out.                                                                                                              

         In a jostling taxi behind the immense vehicle bearing all of our worldly possessions, my husband and I could not yet relax. Just as hubby worried that we were following too close for comfort, Murphy Brown, our affable cabby, turned to reassure us. This was inattention enough to rear-end the looming rig.                                                                                                                                  

         To our horror, the double doors burst open jettisoning a barrage of bulging boxes. Before we could stumble from the cab, a blanket of foam packing chips buried it. It was a mash; mayhem and shit happening! The proverbial chips really had fallen and scattered.                                                            

         It was a small wonder that none of us were injured. I survived the hyper-ventilating and the accident-report paperwork. Actually, Webster, an officer from the local police squad, helped us re-pack the van. We all laughed at the absurdity of random fate. He claimed that he was moonlighting as a mover.                                                                                                                                  

         Moving into our new home, a deluxe apartment in the sky was uneventful. We met our doorman, a rather serious fellow, who introduced himself as Charles in charge. I tried, but couldn't detect a grin, when he referred to "our" new building as Fawlty Towers. Did he know something we did not? What was he privy to? Was there genuine cause to be alarmed?                                                  

         Choosing to dwell on the positives, I pushed any misgivings aside. We'd gambled on a big change of scenery. There was no turning back. Hubby and I were more than ready to begin living different happy days. We wearily toasted each other with champagne and a relieved "Cheers!" I don't know how cheerleaders do it; always perky. Most of my energy had to be reserved for unpacking.          

         After emptying a few boxes, I realized my entire marriage had been a time of growing pains. Along with my waistline, my belongings had expanded. Did we really keep a set of tarnished silver spoons for thirty-five years? Maybe it was time to purge.                                                            

         Hubby and I had to prepare for the wonder years or so I'd been warned. We needed to retain only the essentials and keep things simple. Soon enough we'd be entering a room and wondering what we'd been seeking. Perhaps we'd misplace items and wonder where they were. At the moment, I was wondering how so many years had slipped through my grasp. I was also wondering why we hadn't purged before the move.

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(38 80's sitcom titles)