Today marks a day in history-a day that my husband successfully talked me into something that only a week ago I was adamant against. “What is it, Anne? Tell us–we want to pretend to care, us anonymous readers out there in cyberland that pretend to read about your life.” Well, that quest is something we call house-hunting.
I won’t fib, I love apartment life. If it weren’t for the fact that we are shoved into 600 square feet, with too many books and a dog that we don’t particularly love walking in 95˚ heat, then I could probably live in an apartment forever. I actually don’t mind living within five feet of our neighbors, and I certainly could do without cutting the grass, lawn maintenance in general, and going to a big office every time we get a package. Honestly. I. love. it. Low responsibility = good times for Anne.
…but here’s where that “marriage” part comes in.
Kyle has wanted a house since the day we got married. Whenever we’d drive to a friend’s house, he would always look. Prices, square feet, wooded lots, etc. Me-not so much. Sure, I know what I’d like in a home, but I wasn’t itching to move into one of my own. But you know, that whole love + compromise = marriage thing finally got the best of me and tonight, I broke down. And what do you know? The first time I say, “Wanna go look?” we run into a house we both really love and have entirely too high of hopes about being night one of the house hunt.
So, there it is, folks. Who knows, maybe we will discover after getting knee-deep that apartment life is for us. Somehow, though, I doubt it. I think Kyle’s already mapping out where his Michigan work room will be… and I’m rolling my eyes. :)
anne m. wilson 