Home Is Where The Heart Is, And Also The Collateral
Ester Bloom
117

I found my house before I knew I was looking. Perusing zillow is a hobby of mine (seems to be for many people) and last August it appeared in all of its humble ranch glory. Clicking through pictures revealed the most beautiful pink bathroom I’d ever laid eyes on. I swooned.

Fast forward to January when I’m told my apartment building is being sold and my lease not renewed in July. I had planned to wait another year to buy but now had to choose between a temporary move or just jumping in. I went for it in March, and discovered the house with the pink bathroom was still for sale, buried in the listings, with a lower price. I assumed something was wrong with it and that’s why it hadn’t sold, but I added it to my list anyway.

Reader, there was nothing wrong with it. (the Times piece’s writing is awful, BTW). It is in amazing condition, despite being 61 it has an “effective age” per appraisal and insurance of 14, it’s energy efficient, and it has income-producing basement apartment space.

After I toured it I felt really good about it. It felt comfortable. I kept looking in case there was something better out there, and even made a few offers on places that got away in a tight market, but that house with the pink bathroom was still in my mind. It was the benchmark I was using to measure all the other homes, whether I realized it or not.

I asked to see it alone, no boyfriend or kid, one more time. I spent an hour there, and my realtor left me in peace. It just felt so good.

So I made a lowball offer and the rest is history. But I like to think it was waiting for me. It just hadn’t found the right person yet.

And, related to the millennial piece (a group I reluctantly admit membership in at 31), there is no way I’m risking my home for a vacation. And I’m a person who really likes vacations.