So my boyfriend showed up last night with the news that his ongoing struggles with his bank to get pre-approved for a home loan have finally borne fruit, and he can start making offers on houses. This worries me.
A little backround: about a year ago, he became obsessed with the idea that he was going to buy one of the multitude of foreclosed houses in our city, so that we could live together, have more space, lower our bills, all that good stuff. (I was originally thinking that there would be a wedding ring somewhere in that equation as well, but I’ve since disabused myself of that notion.) He began working with a banker, we looked at a bunch of houses (from the outside), and he began thrashing thru the paperwork. Since it was his project, I’ve kind of stayed out of it. And that’s where things have stood, for about a year.
Suddenly this mortgage-approval-thingy has been, well, approved, and suddenly the “moving into a new house” idea has become One Step More Real.
I am not at all sure I like this.
I like my house, though it’s clearly too small for both of us. I like the location. I like the neighbors, except for the psychos who made me get rid of my chickens, and they have the sense to keep to themselves. I like that I’m five minutes from the farmer’s market. I like the huge yard, even though I hardly use it, and I like the deep, arching trees that go back to the woods. I like my landlord, who lives in upstate New York and could care less if I keep bees and paint the house purple, as long as I don’t burn it down.
This moving thing, I don’t know. I don’t think it will save money (I’ve moved lots of times, and I can painfully remember cleaning out my bank account to move into this house). I don’t like the idea of adjusting my indoor-outdoor cat to a new (albeit safer) neighborhood. I don’t like being outside the perimeter, like some suburban square. And I will lose my Mexican joint, which is an outpost of the local Los Bravos chain that I eat lunch at at least twice a week. Everyone needs a place like this – the one you go all the time, and they don’t even bring you the menu any more, they just bring you your usual, and you can go in alone and not get the hairy eyeball for taking up a booth by yourself (in fact you have “your” booth) and you can go in looking nice or go all ratty in track pants, claiming you just came from the gym, when everyone knows you actually are coming off a three-day sudafed bender in Las Vegas and you need your fajitas NOW. I don’t like the idea of disassembling my entire life, putting it in boxes, taking it to another place, and trying to reassemble it, only to find that there are bits that you are missing. And they were never things that fit in boxes to begin with.
Probably I am just saying that I don’t like disruptions of my routine, and I should look forward to this exciting new household chapter, full of challenges and changes and positive things. A quieter street! An office that’s not in the living room! Space for more shoes!
I don’t like this… at all.
Rose photo above, from somewhere in Spain. I love the warmth of this photo and the slightly melancholy lean of the roses – are they waiting for a princess? – and I would tell you where I took it but I have gone off coca-cola again, to try to be healthy, and my brain is rewarding me by turning into a sponge, and I’m sucking down green tea in a desperate attempt to stay caffeinated and not sink into the throes of withdrawl. So you’re out of luck. It’s probably in Granada, though.