Recently, we went to visit friends whose house is on the market. I’ve seen their house only twice – once shortly after they’d moved in, and now as they attempt to move out. They’ve made lots of upgrades to their home to increase the value and hopefully make a buck before heading off to their new life. As I toured their house, the freshly painted walls, neatly vacuumed carpet, spotless and clutter-free surfaces, huge closets, and newly renovated master bathroom and kitchen spoke to me. They said, “Girl, I know we’re great. But you’re going to have to get over it.”
My house is the opposite of this.
I live in an old house. Not surburban old like built-in-the-1960s-old, but in a few short years, it will hit its hundredth birthday. The first time we saw our house, we were struck by how much charm it had. Our home has never had a major update or addition, aside from a kitchen renovation a few years ago and an unattractive bathroom remodel that’s got to be going on 15 years. We have dark woodwork that appears to have never been painted, never removed, never touched. We have original hardwood floors. We have the original built-in dressers in a few of our closets. Our home is lovely, cozy, and oh-so-charming.
What our home doesn’t have? Large windows. Good lighting. Large bedrooms. Walk-in closets. An open-concept floor plan. A master bathroom – hell, I’d take more than one full bath. Good storage space. In short, it’s not a modern home. There are huge trade-offs to living in an older home that don’t end with mysterious plumbing, electrical issues, and possibility of ghosts. We have small, dark, enclosed rooms with very little closet space.
My husband simply says that we knew what the house was before we moved in. We are lucky to live in such a wonderful place with so much history. This… just makes me feel worse. I get it, I’ve had plenty of pairs of shoes that looked great in the store but gave me blisters. And honestly, I do enjoy our home and appreciate its charm, but there are some things that just don’t work. Of course, we could make updates but mentioning any structural changes that might make the house more livable but less “original” are met with dismay. Who are we to make changes? I don’t want some glitter-suited stranger in the future to look through his smartlenses and say “Yeah, this place was great until a previous owner came along and ruined the whole character.” I don’t want a cookie-cutter home in a subdivision – I just want a home that belongs to me.
I must admit that it’s been tough to come to grips with the limitations of what might be our “Forever Home.” In many ways, it feels like it’s not ours – a museum rather than a home. Like we are eternal guests in our house, some dead person’s VRBO. I always thought I’d be free to make my home my home, and it’s frustrating to be met with so much internal and external pressure to keep it someone else’s.
So yeah, the green-eyed monster came out a bit seeing our friends’ home. I left feeling a bit defeated, a bit disappointed, and a bit jealous. I mentioned this to my husband, who offered 3 options: we could sell our house, knock it down and build a new one, or get over it and accept what it is. His problem-solving didn’t do much for my mood. There are several home projects we’d like to begin the next year or so – finishing our attic, building a deck – maybe that will make me feel better? Maybe. I just can’t push away the image of still having separate too-small closets when we’re 70. Maybe by then we’ll have fewer clothes. We will be shrinking instead of growing. Maybe by then this house will seem too big instead of too small. We are making memories in this home with our baby that can’t be renovated or replaced.
Maybe. But I still want a new bathroom.