So, back about 5 years ago I found my dream house. 2000SF, 4b/2b, vaulted ceilings, big fancy tile throughout, and then super lush carpet in the bedrooms. The master SUITE (which was half mine) took up about a third of the house, had a separate room for the toilet, a two sink vanity, a soaking tub AND super fancy shower, and a closet big enough to be a bedroom. All for $900. I loved it. And I got to live in it for 9 months of the best living I have ever experienced. The story ends badly since the landlord wasn't paying his mortgage and we ended up having to leave due to foreclosure in like 3 days or something ridiculous. (Cherry on top, the day we discovered we had to move was the day I found out I was pregnant with The Monk)
When I talk about that house, I focus on the beauty and all the great things I got out of living in my dream house. My bar of perfection is that house, and I know that when I go to buy my own property (as many years off as that might be) it will be better than that house. My bar has been set.
I ended up driving past that freeway exit today, and there was a strong urge to drive past it, to check on it or something. The other person in the car did NOT feel the same. When I look back at that time in my life I am grateful for the small version of the perfect living situation. When my fellow traveler looks back at that time, all he sees is the last 45 days of hell we had there.
It made me sad for my traveling friend, because my little sister and two of my dearest friends got to share my idea of perfection embodied in an house for 8 months and that to me is pretty amazing, whereas another set of eyes can only see the bad ending. Maybe I'm naive, but I will have these memories until the day I die, and it seems silly to stay bitter about it, when the good memories outweigh the bad by like a million.
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In a totally unrelated note, I was told I need to remember how to have fun. My response? Ok. I need to go home and reorganize my towel cabinet. Old dog + new tricks = hard. ;)
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