My husband, Herman, and I spent three days in Palm Springs looking for our dream house. We found it, but learned that the owners had accepted another bid. We’re now hoping that that bid falls through. We saw over a dozen houses in three days, but only that one was perfect. We found two others where we could see ourselves living. One needed a new kitchen and the other was out of our price range.
When we began discussing buying something that wasn’t perfect, something we would need to put lots of work and money into, the discussion to a slightly different turn. We talked about how this house we buy will hopefully be the last house we buy, the house we grow old in, the house we die in. So we don’t want to settle for second best. We want something we can happily spend our golden years in.
Herman and I are in agreement on this approach, but I find myself feeling very old while discussing golden years and the place where we will die. It’s great to plan ahead and insure our comfort and happiness, but this idea of dying in this house has me slightly depressed.
Herman and my mortality is not something I’ve often considered. Like most people, I like to secretly believe we will be the first couple that will live forever. There is a great deal of comfort, however, knowing will we spend our last years together, in comfort, and facing death together.
So this coming week we will put our current house on the market, and then go back to Palm Springs to search for another perfect dream house. I can’t wait to see it.
2016 was a Spectacular Year for Queer Lit.
3 weeks ago