This house is too big.
When I first met this house, my first thought was, “4.5 baths! Who’s going to clean 4.5 baths?”
My family who knows me, like really knows me, were concerned: “Gosh, we were really happy that you married well, but are ya gonna be HAPPY here?” It’s a soulless neighborhood, Stepford would be proud. Uniform, predictable, a neighbor-to-neighbor front yard wink and a nod that we get to live so… comfortably. But there’s nothing comfortable about loneliness. I don’t know those neighbors they don’t know me. We shut ourselves behind doors and windows that are close enough – if we were actually friends – to hold hands across property lines. Sure, we know each other’s names, but I think that it’s really in case of an emergency, like a breaking-and-entering, not like a broken heart.
Back to the bathroom dilemma: Who’s going to clean 4.5 baths? Rita is, that’s who. She comes every three weeks and although she knows how to speak English, she doesn’t. We both appreciate the easy silence. We can be together in the same room without the pressure of small talk. But now that she’s been here about 15, 20 times, I’d like to ask her “how’re you doing?” and “what did you do for the holidays?” and “what do you suggest we do about the ants?” but instead I continue to “hola, mi amiga” and smile and “gracias.”
We moved from a two-bedroom, one-bath with a sweet little backyard and a crowded, musty one-car garage. Now, we live in one of those McMansions. Why? The mortgage here is less than rent there. Who was the fool who said “You Can’t Buy Happiness”? I’d like to punch him in the face.
I miss the climbing over each other to get ready, and waiting in the hall for a turn with johnny. I miss the one multi-purpose room that could handle dinner, movies, an office space and overnight guests. I miss the dopey backyard with the 50-year-old jade plant. I miss that mildewy garage that leaked when it rained. I miss being able to yell across the house, “we’re leaving in 10 minutes”; Now, I’m a weary hunter, searching for the crouching tigers and hidden dragons behind one of 17 doors.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m incredibly grateful. Here, we are in one of the 50 safest communities in the US. We live within a 20 minute walk to Trader Joe’s, Winco and Costco. There’s a pool and hot tub paid for by our association dues. Thank you Husband, for working so hard. Bliss!
But I’ve also gotten lazy. Entitled. We watch too much TV. We have too many toys. The two-car garage is already full. We have a pantry larger than my first apartment. Unused rooms wait for kids to come home from college or out of town grandparents or a cornucopia of Goodwill waiting on its way out. I am overwhelmed and cannot keep this house clean. Thank you, Rita!
Someday, we’ll move out, but not up. This is as high as I want to go. Husband and I talk about living on a boat, or traveling to Central America while the kids are still young (but not too young that they can’t find their way home), or anything that brings us back to authentic connection with ourselves and each other.
In the meantime, we’ll seek out nature here: watching the sunset, star-gazing, digging for bugs, hiking the nearby preserve, splashing in puddles – all those little enjoyments that could be done wherever we live. And that will be done wherever we live, whenever we get there.