When my mom returned home from her conference, we dragged her out to see the ranch on the lake. And we stopped in to see the small, inexpensive house again. And our real estate agent showed us a new one, too: this miniature but completely updated little cottage on a lake that was, quite clearly, the ultimate bachelor pad.
The ultimate bachelor pad was tempting. It had been completely updated. I wouldn't need to rip out the kitchen, as I would in both of the others. I could paint and move in and put my books in the built-in bookcases and start watching movies in the basement theater with attached bar. Yeah, seriously.
We ruled out the ranch on the lake on that second trip. We visited the small, inexpensive house last and I still found it (minus the kitchen) cute, I still liked the quiet little neighborhood, I still could picture myself there. All of the bells and whistles of the ultimate bachelor pad couldn't dampen my fondness for that little house.
And so the next day I put in an offer.
The process was a little bit surreal. I wasn't as anxious as I thought that I would be. I didn't have the doubt that I assumed that I would have. I was very sure as I signed my name and, at the same time, I had a feeling that this one wasn't going to go through. That this house wasn't going to be THE house.
And I say that but I suppose that statement isn't entirely true: it felt real enough to pick up paint swatches the next day.
But not real enough to cry when I found out a few days later that I didn't get the house.
Because it wasn't meant to be, I suppose. Because that house wasn't my house. It was just for practice.