It started with talk of downsizing. One thing led to another, and a townhouse (with a swank pool and clubhouse) seemed like the answer to all of our problems. Less expensive than our house, smaller and no maintenance, freeing Tim up to spend all of his maintenance time and energy on the camp, aka his dream property.
Talk of townhomes led to, “Oooh, riverfront is nice” and “Or a golf course! Living on the golf course! That’s what we should do!” And 100 hours of drive-bys and collecting flyers later, we’ve narrowed it down to four choice townhouse units on the river that are in our price range, in our preferred location and with the right number of rooms and square feet.
Then today the realtor called. The realtor who came over Friday to give us an idea of what he can sell our house for. The realtor who specializes in our neighborhood. And guess what? If we find a buyer, we can earn, like a dollar in equity. Which is so completely beyond fucked up, I won’t even go into the details. But let’s just say the market? Sucks.
So now we’re stuck with our house. Stuck. With our house. The house that I was crying that I never wanted to leave. The house we all love. Now? It feels like a huge burden, what with the mowing and the painting and the no swank pool or clubhouse or river outside.
Yes, I am fully aware that I am ridiculous and there is no pleasing me.