Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Ed called an hour ago, with an offer. Within 45 minutes, we had agreed to a verbal contract to sell our place. I'd forgotten how quickly these things happen. This rush is different than the one we had when we bought this place though. That was thrill and terror. We were excited. We were nervous. We were proud. We signed the closing papers two weeks before Christmas and ate a victory lunch at Bertucci's. While picking at hot rolls and waiting for our meal, we called our families to tell them that we had the keys in our hands and that we were "homeowners."

Before we moved our furniture in, we made treks here to fix it up. We spent nights spreading paint on the walls, working well into the early morning hours then collapsing in a veil of fumes on the hard carpet. We woke up stiff and sore and aching at every angle. We ate breakfasts at the local diner and discussed what to do next over coffee and shiny country omelets with cubes of fried potatoes. Buy more paint. Buy more rollers. Buy light fixtures, cleaning supplies, a dining room set. We got a credit card from Home Depot and filled our carriages there and at Linen ‘N Things and the Christmas Tree Shoppes. We renovated and decorated until we opened the door and it was home. Our first home.

And now, we're selling. They want to close by the end of the month. We have no new place of our own to move into. This is because all along I've sworn that the stress of buying and selling at the same time might drive me to drink. But now that it's here, and we're facing the prospect of free falling from ownership - into nothing. I feel nothing short of terror.

I haven't felt this out of control since I stared at a stick of a pee that turned into two pink lines. And this whole situation is really sort of a fall out of that little stick. If I hadn't seen those little lines or given birth to my son seven months ago, life would have kept on moving along at a very comfortable pace.

My husband has a job that he's happy with and is paid well. I had an office job, that I hated, but it paid decently; and I'd been accepted to the grad program of my choosing. Life was smoothly sailing along, until the stick.

And I wouldn't change a thing about it. So what? We can’t afford to live in our condo anymore because I'm working less hours and taking care of my son. Is a 900-something square foot condo ever going to greet me with smiles first thing in the morning or pat my cheek tenderly with his cool little hand. No. And I'll never love any home more than I love my son.

And, logically, we would have wound up having to move soon anyway. The market's (supposedly) going down and we needed to get a good profit off this place to have any hopes of securing the next. Which we did. And there's hardly enough room here for our family and two cats as it is. So we'd have to make a move before number 2 comes along.

I guess, in the end, what's the big deal? So, we'll be sort of disembodied for a few months (or longer - ack). We'll be floaters. But in the end, we'll be where God puts us. And we'll have a cushy savings account to sit on while we wait.

I'm not saying that I won't have a good cry about this over the next few weeks, but I think I'd cry even if we had a fantastic new home to move into. Maybe, it's not the fact that we'll be homeless, but the fact that we're leaving our first home. Yes, that's probably it. I'm pretty sure I'd cry whenever we moved out of this place.

Also on a much less sentimental and embarrassingly sappy note – Holy Cow, do realtors get a sweet cut! All Ed did was list our home on the MLS and print up a few (stock) brochures. He never even did a single showing himself - and he's looking at quite a sweet little check. And we even got a deal on the interest, because he's a friend of my grandfather! But, my feelings on that are all fodder for another time and place.


Post a Comment

<< Home