Not Meant to be a Homeowner

Recently I discovered, once and for all, that I am not meant to be a homeowner. For lack of a better post, I will treat you to the reasons why. Utter financial ruin notwithstanding, there are a few basic, practical reasons having to do with the maintenance of a home and having to pay for it. I'm the kind of person who doesn't like to change the oil or rotate the tires on a vehicle. . . How much more costly is the upkeep of a house? It is much easier to complain to the landlord or fix the problem and deduct the cost from the rent. Of course, we frequently fix the issue and do not deduct the amount from the rent, if it was a minor problem, or if it wasn't an "approved" expenditure. Also, we have been without an overhead light in our kitchen since November, as our landlord works offshore and could not replace or fix the fluorescent light that once illuminated our cooking--and laundry--area.

However, the most important reason why I am not suited to homeownership might have something to do with inconstancy--you decide. I have difficulty staying in the same place for very long. I find that all of the elements that I once found charming, the "quirks" of the home, if you will, begin to prey on my consciousness. I feel the walls closing in, and I must seek escape--a change of scenery--a permanent change of scenery. Although I prefer working at home to working at my office (a dreary place), since we have lived in our current house (6 years now--the longest we've lived in one place since we've been married), I have changed my work area several times--from room to room, replacing furniture, lighting, etc. I could put it down to procrastinating, but it really feels like an urgent need for change, and I can procrastinate well enough without moving heavy objects, thank you very much. What else are blogs for?

When I was in college--a "fuzzy little adolescent poet," as one enlightened professor called me--I wrote a poem that I called "No Suburban Love." Ostensibly about not settling down in yuppie comfort, it was about the incompatibility of domesticity and passion and my then-belief in the impossibility of finding lasting love. Truly, a Romantic, naïve poem in many ways, but not one from which I am so distant that I can no longer see its charms. After all, the evocation of "plush carpets" and "soft Sylvania lighting" was quite nice. And, indeed, its evocation of place is true for me in a superficial way. I am not one for settling into one comfortable house, unless I have just not had the means or opportunity to find that particular house, the means and opportunity being attached to my goal of achieving a Ph.D. and finding a job that will allow my family to live comfortably. The one house to which I was attached was sold, unfortunately--my grandparents' house. I wrote a poem about that one, too, in which my grandfather's spirit infused the porch swing, the cypress tree, the brick-paved yard. It was a New Orleans poem, not a suburban poem, and felt more real.

So I find myself, after 6 years of living in one place--having only, since we were married, ever lived in a place for one year at a time before now--looking for a 2-bedroom apartment instead of our 3-bedroom, 1400 sq. ft. (rental, old) house. This will mean getting rid of a lot of "stuff"--"stuff" which is threatening to suffocate and crush me under its burdensome weight. I have heard that moving every so often prevents the accumulation of "stuff." I am willing to experiment to see if it is true.