So we loved it here, of course, how could you not once spring hits, every day sun-warmed and be-blossomed and life-affirming after the Big Dark, the smells and sparks of new growth and lengthening dusk so intoxicating. So yes, this is home. But Cy wanted a Home, capital H.
He made persuasive arguments even though I had been eyeing the balance sheet and was not compelled by emotion because of the pure calculation: we could live forever on the fat largesse of selling our house in Idaho, or we could spend that excess down to buy a house, but what happened if our landing strip ran out, what about a serious injury or job loss or cancer or other emergency? There are things in life that eat up hundreds of thousands in one fell swoop.
But then, you know, the AI bubble loomed, and then “we” went to war, and fungible assets felt a bit unsteadier, a bit less of a security blanket, a bit less compelling compared to that biggest and least fungible security blanket, a house, in a place we loved with all of our hearts.
And why be a dragon, covetously hoarding gold for no purpose, when we can still very comfortably exist with the pile of gold somewhat depleted?
He did the shopping and I held it at arm’s length because I have a bad habit of getting VERY invested, and I’ve grown too accustomed to getting what I want — my husband, my last house, my job, our last rental — so I don’t do well with disappointment. But then this big nice 20-year-old house with a dog-friendly yard on a dead end street next to an arterial pathway popped up and we put in an offer the day it posted.
Despite the loan officer finagling that made us doubt our life choices (“We don’t care what you have in the bank, why do you earn so little as a couple?!”), we were nimble and liquid and decisive and good at e-signing and collecting tax documents and answering emails.
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| Obligatory closing day photo |
After closing, we got the keys a bit before noon and were moved in by the end of the day. A friend offered a hand and I told her we were already finished, explained that when Cy and I are both turned up to 11 we’re a formidable team, strike mission speed with no amphetamines required. We both hate the in-between, the butt scratching, the disrupted and disorderly life, so why not sprint for a day or two rather than turning unpleasantness into an ultramarathon.
And then we were in the new house and I had my reservations, because we had been in the rental for three years and it had broad kitchen counters with capacious cabinets and was a little closer to our favorite swimming hole and I had to game out my new bike routes to work and shop and trails — and as I learned, and Cy greeted with zero surprise, apparently I am not great at coping with change — but here we are two weeks later and the yard is ripe green and the bedroom is cool and quiet and the neighbors poke their heads over the fence to say hi and Cy has a workspace in the garage for the first time and my pedal to work is shorter and everything is good.
Really good.
