I am one of those crazy people who bought a house during the COVID market craze without ever even seeing it.
In my defense, I’ve been searching for a home for a long time, have seen a ton of other houses (both in terms of house hunting and generally), and feel like I have a pretty good handle on what’s realistically within my price range. Having lived in a big city for some time, I am ready for some land and my own little escape to happiness. In this moment, however, with just one week before I get to finally step into my new forever home, I am in a surreal tea-cup-ride-spin of emotion, tossed between optimistically planning for each room (I've never laid eyes on) and silently dreading that potential “OMG what have I done” revelation. Fortunately, my fear is mostly drowned by meticulous lists and mountainous to dos preparing for this new home as well as the "good vibes" my partner, who was lucky enough to see the place once during inspection, has praised. But the fact of the matter still remains—I am spending the largest amount of money I’ve ever spent in my life on a home that I have never seen and plan to live in for hopefully a long time—at least long enough pay off said amount money.
In one week from today, I will sign a hundred pages, smile through my fear, and unlock that door for the very first time. And this is where I choose to start my journey. Sight Unseen.
Full disclosure: I have spent the last 4 months in my future mother-in-law’s attic at a seaside motel on the coast of Maine. This is not exactly something I ever thought would roll so casually off the tip of my tongue. If I step outside of my body and sprinkle a pastel pop of color all over the image, it does at times hold the air of an old fairytale. Each morning, for instance, I literally greet the horses and the chickens and the butterflies whilst meandering through wildflower-speckled meadows, often singing, on my way to the beach. Which is absolutely stunning and a part of the "fairy tale" which I will miss immensely. What I’ve gained in natural beauty, however, I’ve relinquished in ten-fold in personal space and privacy. Did I mention the entire extended family is here--not to mention, a slew of summer tourists and guests? My time has not been my own; which, quite frankly, after quarantining strictly for a year and half and then revving from 0 - 60 on the social scale, was an especially challenging adjustment. In the end, this summer proved to be an extraordinary experience which I know would never have happened without the forceful hand of a global pandemic.
I hate myself for saying this but I miss my stuff. I only brought my “essentials”—which, at the time, were my pets, the loungewear I’ve been living in, a couple of books, the expensive bottles of booze I couldn’t chuck or put in storage, my computer, and a crap ton of hand sanitizer. There are pieces of plastic that currently live a mysterious life apart from me in a concrete box 300 miles away. You see, I’m a very nostalgic, sentimental person, who keeps every card I’ve ever received, every trinket, every picture—anything that has a personal connection to a person in my life is in that box. I miss my books. I have a lot of books. I miss my art supplies. I miss my baking goods and, well, just having a kitchen. I do think that I’ve accepted making memories as tokens of my experience here (*pat on back*) and I suppose I've enjoyed living a more minimal life, and more seriously I genuinely appreciate that I still have more in this attic than a lot of people in this world have, but I’d be lying if I tried to tell you that I didn’t miss my stuff.
In just one week, I get to see my house AND my stuff. Huzzah! With that, I leave you for a mountain of to-do lists and the type-A type of planning that brings me peace while I try to stay sane getting through these next seven days.