|Stuyvesant Town in Manhattan--where I probably still belong|
Part of the problem, granted, is our ridiculously tight budget, but that's not all of it. I just really don't enjoy home ownership. My early years were spent in a New York City apartment, and as I recall it was heaven. Nothing to maintain, one quick phone call would get anything broken repaired. Best of all, when it was time to move, we could just close up shop and walk away. As I grew older, we began relocating frequently, living in three houses (New York, Massachusetts and Georgia). My parents were truly dreadful homeowners, like me, but we never lived in one place long enough to do much damage. Our happiest times were spent in recently built apartment complexes, where you could even call someone to come change the lightbulbs (Mom actually did that). Atlanta was especially great because EVERYTHING there was new—new expressways, new mega-malls, new office buildings.
My dislike of old things is at the heart of it, probably. I see no value in antiques or vintage clothing, and while I appreciate what occurred at historic sites back in the day, I’d enjoy them more if they were, you know, less dusty.
So here I am, saddled with a house of a certain age. A house that, slowly but surely, is falling down all around me. A house that, now that I think of it, is a mirror image of myself—getting old, poorly maintained. Soon it will be AARP and senior discount day at the grocery store for me, and I hate the thought. When I’m in shiny new spaces of stainless steel and glass, I can forget for awhile that I carry quite so much history inside me. I can wipe the slate clean and start again.
|This Old House|