We’re thinking about moving.
I’ve always thought of myself as someone who thrives on change – I’ve always liked to move, yearned to live in new cities, changed jobs every couple of years. That said, a quick look through my archives says I’m not very good at changing. I may thrive, but much angst ensues.
I’m in the beginnings of that angst.
I love this house. I thought I’d raise my children in this house. I figured we’d nimbly side-stepped the rat race by finding a (cheap, huge, quirky, magical) house in (inexpensive, up-and-coming, semi-urban) Knoxville without considering a single other house. I didn’t have to choose a house since this one was such a slam dunk.
Creepy? Sure. Needing work? Definitely. Intimidating? Sometimes.
But we’d never outgrow it, never wish we had just one more room or a little bit more storage space. And the grounds (ha, grounds! as if they are manicured and well-kept) are magical. Magical! We might not be using (or maintaining) this house to it’s full potential, but the potential is there. And our neighborhood is fantastic.
And yet, living life can’t help but bring change.
The genesis of this situation is funny (aren’t they all?). We were talking about Joey’s childhood on the lake, which led to dreaming of weekend houses on the lake, which led to research on building houses on lakes, which led to “Why wouldn’t we just live in this dream house full-time?” Yea, I came around to his side. I always do. So we looked at lake houses and quickly determined they are a) ugly and b) stupidly expensive. I could take either/ or, but not both. I can’t imagine forking over half a million dollars (at the least!) for a house that signifies everything I hate about houses.
My life as a single person might have been a semi-straight line from here to there; in marriage, we wander and climb and take great big leaps from one dream to the next. It’s scary and wonderful all at once.