Cost of Living

Our pretty, pricey needlepoint pillows, purchased on Nantucket in 1997 (and we had no business even buying those!)

It began innocently enough. I was surfing the 'net one day, when my board wiped out at an ad for a house for sale in 'Sconset, Nantucket. Steve and I had traveled to that gorgeous island for our 20^th anniversary many years ago, and marvelled at the beauty of the little “cottages,” which in season are covered with climbing roses. I wondered what such a sublime tiny dwelling cost, so I clicked on the listing. $3 million!!!!! Alrighty then. Approximately $2,999,000 over our budget. 

That should have ended my perusals, but instead I became addicted to virtual house hunting. I checked the listings in our beloved Lewes so often that a realtor started reaching out to me directly, asking if he could show me some homes in the area. I don’t have the guts to tell the truth about my financial situation, so I’ve been kind of stringing him along, not saying “yes” but not saying “no” either. 

 

My late sister Mo used to take things a step further. She and a friend would doll themselves up and attend open house showings in Atlanta. She loved checking out the splendid abodes, even as she struggled to afford her modest apartment rent. There was always hope for a filthy rich future, and Maureen wanted to be ready when that happy day might dawn! 

 

A recent obsession for me has been a weekly feature in The New York Times called, appropriately, "The Hunt." Every Thursday they spotlight a prospective buyer, their budget, and three possible places from which they choose. The gimmick is that you don’t find out what they decided upon until you guess. The cost of just about every place in New York City is staggering. Does Jennie get a) the apartment with a kitchenette, one tiny bedroom, and a teensy backyard (which may or may not have a slight rat problem)? Or does she settle for b) that fixer-upper (sold as-is, as-is not including closets)? Perhaps the best choice is c) the fifth floor walkup? It’s really nice, but without an elevator I cannot imagine the torturous moving day and subsequent grocery lugging. 

I ALWAYS guess wrong, and shake my head at Jennie’s bad decision to sink a fortune into a place that would cost a fraction of the price were it just located in, say, West Boonieville. Jennie, Jennie, expand your horizons! I hear West Boonieville has a rustic charm, and you could afford an actual kitchen too!

 

In the end, I always console myself: I don’t have to move anywhere right now. I’m lucky enough to have a perfectly nice house, with a reasonable amount of stairs and a rat-free yard. But someday, when I become a bestselling author and/or win Powerball, I’m sure I’ll be tempted to trade up. What’ll it be? A wee little rose covered Nantucket cottage? Bayfront splendor in Lewes? Or will I be seduced by closet-less living in the Big Apple?

 

Guess I’ll cross that multimillion dollar bridge when I come to it.

Stuyvesant Town, NYC, my childhood home. You do NOT want to know what the rent is these days.

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