I moved. This two word sentence does not begin to describe what actually happened, which included engaging a real estate agent, buying a house, brush-hogging the associated five acres of property, refurbishing the barn, moving all of my worldly goods into the house, retaining an attorney, attending the closing (I should probably not mention that the attorney for the seller, who has worked with another attorney whom I have known since the mid-’70s, thought I was a therapist, not a lawyer), taking my horses and their voluminous accoutrements from their former lodgings to my new barn, holding a tag sale, putting the old house on the market, acquiring a willing buyer, negotiating, capitulating, repairing some ancient electrical wiring, procuring a dumpster, filling the dumpster, assailing portions of the house and some horrifying furniture with a sledgehammer, going to the dump, and finally attending a second closing.
This all took place in October and November, months which are reminiscent to me as a lawyer assailed by post-traumatic anniversary phenomenon. In this case, the events in question were receiving the results of the bar exam and starting to practice law.
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