Tuesday, May 15, 2007

It’s an architectural imperative that one of the doors in a Jack and Jill bathroom will always fail to shut completely, instead demanding ample slamming to complete its trajectory. There’s some kind of metaphor here, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to coax it out, so let’s settle on the underlying emotion: aggravation. Time is at a premium these days, which in itself isn’t the problem. It’s when you set the crunch against the backdrop–a southern existence lined with good weather–that makes you wonder whether the deficit is artificial, caused perhaps by priorities in need of recalibration.

The townhouse, I’ve come to realize, is a kind of assisted living environment, a hamster cage cleverly designed to ensnare those who quail at the prospect of lawn care or exterior upkeep. At this point? It’s precisely what I need. And lest I go too soft, there’s enough wildlife to rough it, at least to the extent I can rough it a mile-and-a-half away from a corporate park. We’re talking gold-backed spiders, flying insects the size of small bats, and beasts that bark at the moon. They just sound different, you know? Rawer. My guess is wild dogs, but maybe, just maybe, these are coyotes, so goes the secret hope.

You go into the process thinking you’re prepared–commute perfectly plotted, location picked to appreciate, floors and counters made out of this material–but there’s always more to learn, especially for a first-time homebuyer. A trustworthy realtor is essential, because someone needs to translate your likes and dislikes into something on the market. It’s a rich experience, and when you clack out this exact sentence in a computer nook that echoes just so, well, that’s that.