When I was 31 I fell in love. No, I don’t mean to the man I met and married years ago. That is a different story about love. No, this was a new kind of love for me. It was a love that surprised me even though in the end it was just like every other love story.
I’m talking about real estate love.
It began with a searching and a desire. Much like any young teenager hoping for something they only dreamed of, read about, or imagined; we began browsing for a match. There was many a happy hour (okay, afternoons…fine… days & days) spent ogling house listing after house listing online. Maybe I was a bit addicted to Redfin, but this was young love. An often foolish, unreasonable thing.
Flush with my first infatuations I talked about them all the time, sent my husband email after gushing email. Every day was filled with anticipation and eager hopefulness. What would I find today? When would I feel that rush?
Then it stopped being a casual browse and became an earnest search. We had our matchmaker. We were going on dates.
We had made a list of everything we wanted. Our ideal match, the house of our dreams all prioritized. We said we didn’t expect to find everything on that list, but of course we did. A fireplace? We hardly used our apartment’s, but this was our house. Of course it had to have a fireplace. And I always wanted a gas stove and wouldn’t a garage or basement be great? Wood floors, a claw-foot tub, charming touches, modern updates, and of course affordable. I said it was an idyllic list, remember?
Every weekend we’d go receive a listing full of numbers, facts, and images taken to showcase the best features & carefully hide the worst. In between all those numbers I would picture a new life. I’d imagine us together, the happy days we would spend together. Us and the house.
The meetings were both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. Every time we turned a corner and pulled up front my heart would rise. Could this be it? Would I walk inside and just know?
Some encounters were just awful, maybe even a bit depressing. Was this the best we could get? I mean we’re not the hottest things on the market either, but didn’t we deserve a bit more?
Others went pretty well, they had great moments right beside a few painfully awkward ones. I loved its kitchen, its charming porch, but that obtuse floor plan, the meh finishes, and the repairs I could already hear adding up on some evil cashregister in my mind. Maybe we were just better as friends.
Continue reading “Real (Estate) Love”