Am I in love with my house, or am I holding back real emotional attachment until the house is all fixed up? Why can't I just love it the way it is? Why is home improvement like falling in love?
Let's not turn this in a "Sex and the City" episode.
We've been experiencing incredible weather, for November and for the South. So I've been unfurling my hammock and chillin' in the back yard.
From the hammock, I get to see the back of my house from a new perspective. It's still not repainted (although I've made headway on prep work on the north side) but it looks a bit lovely in the fading fall afternoon light. My garden is bursting with beauty, almost as it was taking one deep, final breath before exhaling for winter.
And for a few hours, I can let go of my inner to-do list -- remodel my bathroom on a budget, get a driveway done, or, now that my heating is fixed, finish installing storm windows.
It's like I've been dating for four years, but think: he might not be The One -- If only he would just dress up more, drive a little better car, or not laugh so loud.
Instead, I start thinking that way about myself. I'm Bridget Jones, often dumbstruck that someone would want me -- My life is beginning to show its age, and work is getting worse.
Love this house the way it is? Every project -- completed -- makes me feel a little more comfortable about being proud of this house. Maybe I really want this house to love me.
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