When I was younger, I always imagined that the first home I bought would be as part of a couple. It would be our little House of Dreams, as in Anne’s House of Dreams, my 12 year-old-self’s bible on what adulthood would be like. I figured that if I could just get past the awkwardness of being a teenager, my Prince Charming, or in this case, Gilbert, would come.
By the time I was 25, after a live-in stint with my boyfriend of 6 years, I shelved those dreams and bought my own place. I had fallen in love, not with a man but with a cute little condo a block from the beach. In the back of my mind was the thought that this would be my starter home, the one I would sell when I was ready to buy my “real home” with the man I would marry. At the time, all I knew was that I hadn’t had a place that felt like home since I was 14, and that 600 square feet made me happier than anything I’d ever done for myself.
These days, that 600 square feet just feels small. For the past few weeks I’ve been playing with the idea of moving to a bigger place. I’ll be 29 in a couple of months and Prince Charming doesn’t seem any closer to getting his act together and growing up. The other week, while browsing around the Sunday paper I found a few listings in a community I would love to live in. Not only are the units twice as big and have an ocean view, I’ll basically be paying only slightly more than I’m paying now with the added bonus of a good chunk of change sitting in my savings account. The wacky real estate market has appreciated my current home 100% in the last three years.
So now all I have to do is figure out how to sell one home, while buying another. Alone. The 12 year-old inside of me wants to rebel and wait for Prince Charming to take care of all the little details, but I’m beginning to accept that if I wait for that, I could be waiting forever. And I need more space for my shoes.