Home for Sale
So apparently, someone I briefly dated a while back is in the process of buying a house with his new boyfriend.
The "new boyfriend" part stopped me momentarily, but only momentarily. It's not a question of being over this guy, because being over him would imply that I was ever under him in the first place, and he barely made it to first base. Really, I'm glad he's found true love, or whatever he's calling it, considering that he only first hooked up with this guy late one night at the tail end of March. If six months is enough time for a person to become ready to commit to making the biggest purchase of a lifetime with someone else, then more power to them both.
As for me, I'm just struck with a mix of awe and terror on the idea of buying real estate in the first place.
In many ways, I am my mother's son. She was a romanticist who married my father and then moved with him halfway around the world from Germany to the Bronx, and then again from the Bronx to DC. Growing up, I always remember her dead-set against moving out of our rented apartment to a place our family could call our own, and I think for her, the idea of owning a place meant she would never get back to her beloved Fatherland. It was only after she had her cerebral hemorrhage, and could no longer put up a fight, that my father would buy the awful little two-bedroom house they now have in the Washington exurbs. I suspect that if she were truly conscious of her surroundings for more than a few moments, she'd probably cry at her worst fears coming to pass.
There are only two times I've even ever flirted with the idea of buying property. The first and closest was when I was still with Robert, and we talked casually about buying a house or condo on the Hill. But Robert couldn't commit to dinner let alone a mortgage, and with real estate in DC already at that point having gone completely out of control, that never ended up being more than a mix of Sunday shopping and idle chatter.
The second time came when I was with Michael, and we went condo shopping together for him. He saw it as a place for both of us; I saw it as a property he was buying on his own, since I wasn't emotionally ready to make a commitment to him, and I secretly knew he was just looking to fill the void left by ending his eight-year relationship three months earlier. I left my mark through my choices of paint colors, furniture, and decorations; he left his by ending our relationship amidst it all.
If there's any connection between the two, it's that both times, the idea of making the leap certainly wasn't mine. But as I enter into my mid-30s, and as I look at the prospect that my finances might actually stabilize in the next year, it seems that everyone expects me to make the move towards moving into a place that I own.
But somehow, I can't. I watch amazed as my new roommate Joshua, eight years my junior, shops house catalogs and considers real estate agents and lenders.
There's a practical part of me that's resistant to the idea simply because I know Atlanta is not the place I want to be, and I try to do everything in my power to keep from getting tied down here.
But then there's that romantic side, my mother's influence, the part that doesn't want to be tied down to anywhere. That's the part of me that lives light, devoid of that excess in stuff--have cat, will travel. Atlanta today, Chicago tomorrow, Rome next week, Christmas in Beijing.
It is a romantic notion, childish even. Still, it's something to which my inner Walter Mitty clings, much in the way most Americans seem to readily embrace the idea of owning a little corner to call their own.
Maybe one day I'll get to the point where I'll embrace that dream, too, but for now, I still think I'm perfectly content to be awed and amazed at those who already have.
The "new boyfriend" part stopped me momentarily, but only momentarily. It's not a question of being over this guy, because being over him would imply that I was ever under him in the first place, and he barely made it to first base. Really, I'm glad he's found true love, or whatever he's calling it, considering that he only first hooked up with this guy late one night at the tail end of March. If six months is enough time for a person to become ready to commit to making the biggest purchase of a lifetime with someone else, then more power to them both.
As for me, I'm just struck with a mix of awe and terror on the idea of buying real estate in the first place.
In many ways, I am my mother's son. She was a romanticist who married my father and then moved with him halfway around the world from Germany to the Bronx, and then again from the Bronx to DC. Growing up, I always remember her dead-set against moving out of our rented apartment to a place our family could call our own, and I think for her, the idea of owning a place meant she would never get back to her beloved Fatherland. It was only after she had her cerebral hemorrhage, and could no longer put up a fight, that my father would buy the awful little two-bedroom house they now have in the Washington exurbs. I suspect that if she were truly conscious of her surroundings for more than a few moments, she'd probably cry at her worst fears coming to pass.
There are only two times I've even ever flirted with the idea of buying property. The first and closest was when I was still with Robert, and we talked casually about buying a house or condo on the Hill. But Robert couldn't commit to dinner let alone a mortgage, and with real estate in DC already at that point having gone completely out of control, that never ended up being more than a mix of Sunday shopping and idle chatter.
The second time came when I was with Michael, and we went condo shopping together for him. He saw it as a place for both of us; I saw it as a property he was buying on his own, since I wasn't emotionally ready to make a commitment to him, and I secretly knew he was just looking to fill the void left by ending his eight-year relationship three months earlier. I left my mark through my choices of paint colors, furniture, and decorations; he left his by ending our relationship amidst it all.
If there's any connection between the two, it's that both times, the idea of making the leap certainly wasn't mine. But as I enter into my mid-30s, and as I look at the prospect that my finances might actually stabilize in the next year, it seems that everyone expects me to make the move towards moving into a place that I own.
But somehow, I can't. I watch amazed as my new roommate Joshua, eight years my junior, shops house catalogs and considers real estate agents and lenders.
There's a practical part of me that's resistant to the idea simply because I know Atlanta is not the place I want to be, and I try to do everything in my power to keep from getting tied down here.
But then there's that romantic side, my mother's influence, the part that doesn't want to be tied down to anywhere. That's the part of me that lives light, devoid of that excess in stuff--have cat, will travel. Atlanta today, Chicago tomorrow, Rome next week, Christmas in Beijing.
It is a romantic notion, childish even. Still, it's something to which my inner Walter Mitty clings, much in the way most Americans seem to readily embrace the idea of owning a little corner to call their own.
Maybe one day I'll get to the point where I'll embrace that dream, too, but for now, I still think I'm perfectly content to be awed and amazed at those who already have.