Riding home from work on my scooter yesterday, wind blowing freely over my shoulders, I allowed myself for the first time in three weeks to feel excited about becoming a homeowner.
I looked at all the shops and buildings I ride past every day on my way home from the office, and I imagined telling the shop employees that I won’t be living there anymore. I imagined how it’ll feel not to pass the 7-11 on Meade and 30th on my rides home, or what it’ll be like not to see the front porch I once rode off of every time I pull up in the driveway. I was briefly saddened by the fact that I may have to actually drive a car to get to work next week. But the feeling quickly passed.
I continued the excitement throughout the house, quietly telling all of the things around me that I’m not coming back next week.
“Guess what, crappy countertops? You’re staying here!”
“Hey wasps in the backyard! Sorry, no place for you at the new house.”
“Hey stupid neighbor who smokes on his balcony when my window is open! Smoke on someone else next week!”
“Oh yeah, guy who digs the recyclables out of my bin next to the back yard fence and makes Zeus bark his face off once a week? Come back any time; I won’t be here!”
Yesterday, I heard the words we’ve been waiting to hear for six weeks, “We’re drawing up the loan docs tomorrow. All conditions have been cleared.”
My fist is about to start pumping.