I'm moving, I'm not moving; I'm moving, not...

Our move to Delaware is a cliffhanger. Maybe, maybe not.

This puts me into a rather odd position. People keep taking me to lunch, saying their last tearful goodbyes, only to encounter me in the Pathmark the next week. I sense they're getting irritated: "Stand not upon the order of your going, but leave at once!"

It sounds something like the person who is at death's door, but hasn't found the key yet. There he lies, quietly breathing, not saying much, while the would-be survivors wonder what to wear to the funeral (Will it be too hot for my dark suit?), whether he will be buried on the very day of the theater tickets, the big ball game, etc., when can I start dating again? etc. Touchy.

If I don't go, I have an awful number of lunches to return.