fear of downsizing
The house is too big. We are just two people; do we really need four bedrooms?
The kids have been gone for years now and without them we are just rattling around. The bedrooms and the full bathrooms also are all upstairs, which means there are stairs to climb — 16, to be specific, because I’ve counted them. They are OK for us now, but who knows how much longer they will be?
Plus, outside there are leaves that tumble down every autumn and have to be raked and grass that grows every spring and summer that has to be mowed. There are gutters that need to be replaced and chimneys that need to be cleaned. The property taxes are climbing and the water bills are more than flush.
We’re thinking of downsizing.
Well, we’ve been thinking about it, to be honest, for some time. And talking about it. And doing nothing about it.
The idea of downsizing — of moving to a smaller, one-level, more appropriately-sized place with fewer responsibilities — seems theoretically attractive. But leaving our neighborhood and our neighbors; paring down what we have and ridding ourselves of so much; of such drastic change — seems absolutely overwhelming.
We have been in our house for more than 20 years, and have expanded into it. We have filled in every nook and cranny and even created additional crannies wherever we could.
Truly, we understand we no longer need all those nooks.
But:
A smaller, downsized home would mean fewer places — couches, chairs, a coffee table — where we could carelessly toss a sweater we had taken off. If we’d have to give up the stationary bike, which admittedly takes up considerable room, where would we hang the pants we were wearing earlier in the day?
Downsizing would mean probably getting rid of our daughter’s old guitar, which she hasn’t played in 25 years and almost definitely won’t ever play again but we continue to hold out hope.
It would mean probably sharing an office. Which would mean I couldn’t spread out all the tiny Post-it notes with their various reminders of things I thought I need to do and she couldn’t have the necessary privacy when she was practicing her Duo Lingo Italian.
We would probably have to get rid of all the extra old blankets and comforters we have in the linen closet that we rarely use because they are old and extra. And we may not have a linen closet.
The kitchen would be smaller, fewer cabinets, which would probably mean we’d have to get rid of the rubberized bundt cake pan which we last used in 1993. It also could mean no room for that massive wood salad bowl that is so massive it’s too big for any salad we have ever made — but it’s really nice wood.
Downsizing would require thousands of small decisions, and, inevitably, dreaded decision fatigue:
Keep or donate?
Sell or give away?
Which furniture will fit?
Who gets what?
And what to do with all the photos and papers and acquired memorabilia of a lifetime, including the ceramic ashtray we stole from Le Train Bleu restaurant in Paris and all those adorable drawings from when the kids were in elementary school?
All that surely will be difficult. But maybe, I’m thinking, the hardest part of actually downsizing would be the acknowledgement that it symbolizes aging. Moving to a smaller place with fewer responsibilities would feel like an admission: “This stage of life is ending. We’re entering another stage, the final one.”
So, resistance to downsizing isn’t really about square footage or about what to do with the bundt pan or the hand-drawn happy birthday card my then six-year-old son gave me nearly 40 years ago. It is, I think, about identity. Letting go of the house isn’t just a real-estate decision; it’s acknowledging there’s more behind you than ahead of you.
Still, we’ll need to do it, most likely sometime soon. And I’m pretty sure I won’t be happy about it. Except, maybe, when I don’t have to go up the stairs or rake the leaves.