THIS IS MY NEW HOUSE:
Isn't it cute?
I can't believe I just wrote that.
But I did.
Because I have turned into THAT PERSON. The person who loves her house and wants to show it off, like a baby. Isn't it cute? The person who talks about her house too much in casual conversation. "I can't believe we couldn't get the baseboard heat thermometer to work." The person who talks about the merits of "Firefly Yellow" vs. "Goldenrod Blush" over mimosas instead of...instead of what? Talking about sex? But that's what you do when you're single. I'm not single anymore. I'm in a new relationship--with my house. I have a crush on my house. No, it's worse. I AM HAVING SEX WITH MY HOUSE. And then I am TMI-ing about it. TALKING ABOUT HOW GOOD IT WAS. OR HOW BAD IT WAS. Or how unexpectedly awesome it was. Or how unexpectedly lame it was.
It's disturbing. But isn't it cute?
This is totally not what I expected would happen. I resisted buying this house with all my might. I didn't want to be tied to Boulder. I didn't want to fix my own garbage disposal. I didn't want to hear about anything that necessitated a 30-year commitment. A 30-year commitment meant I'd have to think about myself at 63 years old, and that means at some point I'm going to BE 63 years old, and that really harshed my mellow. That meant I couldn't live in denial of getting older and eventually dying. Yep. Isn't it cute.
My fiancee, on the other hand, seemed to be salivating over words like "amortization." He wanted to commit to it all--the 30 years, the DIY, the big backyard. I assumed we'd get into this house and he'd start spending all day in an apron and a toolbelt, whistling while he worked. I assumed I'D get up every morning and immediately flee the scene, bee-lining for the coffeeshop downtown and trying to feel as unrooted as possible.
Instead, I am the homebody! I can sit at my dining room table typing happily on this computer, drinking tea, from 8am until 8pm. I can spend 2 hours online looking for flokati rugs and NOT BE DONE. I can get my scintillating conversation fill for the day by talking to the Joyful Furniture lady on the phone about end tables. My fiancee will come home and say, "Have you moved?" And then the next day, when I do exactly the same thing, he'll say, "No, really, your limbs are going to atrophy."
I guess I should break it to him. I'm cheating on him with the house.
Isn't it cute?