Life Will Be Perfect When I Live in That House

Matt and I are six months into our stint in temporary housing.

It’s been six months since I’ve slept in my bed or sat on my couch, and it’s wearing on me.

I think.

Unless it’s just life wearing on me. Life in a pandemic. Life in an unstable political atmosphere.

At any rate, I’m ready to start feeling settled in our new house.

We have drywall. We have stucco. It’s almost time for the pretty stuff. (Hopefully it’s pretty when it all comes together.)

Years ago, I read a book by Meghan Daum: Life Would Be Perfect if I Lived in That House. And, although I don’t remember much about the story itself, I feel as though I’ve embraced the idea summarized by the title—embodied it really.

I know better, of course.

Life will never be perfect. I will never be perfect. I’ve moved enough times to know I’ll still be the same person who gets frustrated/annoyed/crabby far too quickly…

But the me that lives in that house will have a freestanding bathtub and library room with two comfy arm chairs, and a person who has those things simply MUST be a better person, right?

I also can’t help but think that maybe I’ll be more motivated to wash the dishes when they’re MY dishes and less crabby about putting laundry away when I can put my clothes in MY dresser drawer rather than the felt-lined drawer that held who-knows-what before I vacuumed out random little hairs and fuzz and put my underwear in there.