I don’t really consider myself a nester, at least, not in the way that people talk about pregnant women “nesting,” or apparently new brides. Whatever. But I do like to make the space mine. What’s the difference? I’m not sure. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe I just don’t like the term “nester.” Ish.
Anyway, I was writing an email to my closest friends and family, telling them that there are only 21 hours until there are no more barriers for the house becoming ours, and I got a little misty, a little sentimental, a little… sappy.
Basically, I just wanted to write and say that the beautiful, lovely, wonderful house is almost ours. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath, and now I can breathe a little bit. Because, truly, we love that house. Both of us. (And you may know that it is very difficult for us to find things that we both love.) And want it so very badly. That’s the feeling one should have about a house, right? So that 2 months from now when I’m pulling rocks out of the garden, a month from now when we’re cleaning out the gutters, and two years from now when we’re hanging new drywall, it won’t be nearly so bad, because it’s home.
Really, I didn’t know I would ever feel so… positively passionate about a house. Maybe it’s because the houses I grew up in were just automatically home, the place we lived, and I wasn’t involved in that deciding process. Some of the apartments I’ve lived in since college have been lovely, and some have been just atrocious. And as much as I loved the last house I lived in, I was so excited to be leaving to go be married that it was barely bittersweet.
It’s been a hopefully-well-kept (but probably not) secret that I’m not a fan of our current house. To spare feelings, I won’t go into details. Maybe it’s because I never pictured myself living in a townhouse community where every building is the same. Maybe it’s because I have an allergic reaction to suburbia (you can build up a tolerance to that, did you know?). Maybe it’s because we were always going to move and so it was always just temporary. Maybe it’s the walls that are painted a lovely shade of grey that make me so depressed (it’s like it’s a rainy, cloudy day, inside, every day). Whatever. The point is, I have blamed that house on not a few annoyances in the last year and a half. Every time I bang my [bony body party] on [hard surface], I have exclaimed not nice things about the house in my head. I’m not even, quite frankly, apologetic about that. I do feel a little bad because really does like our house and has many years of fond memories in it, and it probably hurts his feelings when I share my displeasure (so I try not to, except when absolutely necessary). [Sidenote: did you know that so very many conversations are really not necessary and not worth the trouble/argument/discomfort? You gotta pick your battles!]
At any rate, while I should probably feel a bit sad about leaving the house (the first house we lived in! as a married couple!), I really don’t.
While I’m apathetic about the leaving, where we’re going is quite the opposite. So.in.love. I mean, moving has obvious inconvenient consequences. We have to find a new gym, new grocery store, new pharmacy, new Target, new fabric store, new walking routes, new driving routes, new ways around our community, new ad nauseum. And having done that… at least 7 times since I turned 18, I can say that while it’s not that fun, it’s not that terrible either. Just annoying for a few weeks (or months) until you stop feeling lost every time you leave the house.
I should probably stop waxing poetic about the house. I mean, it’s not actually ours yet. There’s an inspection still. And then another two weeks, and papers to be signed and money to be handed over, and… meteors could fall to the earth and mess up all our plans. I don’t want to go and jinx the whole thing, so let me say for the record that our second choice home is also lovely, we would be quite happy there, and is still on the market, so we’re all good.
[Editor’s note: I now feel like a mean and horrible person, as if I’ve just admitted that I don’t like puppy dogs, or my hobby is seeing if cats can swim, or that I think tomatoes and oranges are an abomination to the food world…. OK, two out of three of those are true. Maybe I am a horrible person. But, I would never tell you that you looked fat, would never walk up to a strange woman and ask her when she’s due, never insult your cooking to your face, and always be available for wardrobe consultations. So maybe I come out even?]