We’re about to put our house on the market, the house that is my favorite of the over thirty places I’ve lived. The house where I feel so safe, so protected, so at peace.
It’s time. For several reasons.
First, we spend a fortune on upkeep and have found a condo development we like where the association fee is less that our lawn mowing service in the eight months of mowing season. Second, I’m not willing to go away in the winter for an extended time as long as we live in this house because its northern boundary is the St. Joseph River, which can become savage from January through March. I don’t want to return to a wet disaster. Yet, Earl longs for warm weather in the home stretch of those months.
Third, we have more space than two people really need, even two people who are the exact opposite in most things. I like to work in silence; Earl wants double decibels of noise. I like classical music. He wants talking heads: Rush Limbaugh, Bill O’Reilly, Dr. Bill, Hannity, etc.
So on an intellectual level, I believe the decision to move is the right one; we need to make a lifestyle change, one where we’re not bound to a house’s needs. One that lets Earl bask in warm sun elsewhere in the middle of February. One that doesn’t cost $1000 a month in yard upkeep during high season.
On an emotional level, however, I’m finding more difficulty. I need to think of our home as a “house for sale” rather than all those things I mentioned before. I need to detach and think about the monies we’ll gain, the simpler lifestyle we’ll lead, the ability to travel that we’ll enjoy. I need to remind myself that I’ve never lived anywhere very long, that when it’s time to paint it’s time to move.
The thing is that while my mind believes it, my heart is having a hard time.
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