I’m not sure why anyone would want to shake a stick at anything, frankly, but if one were to shake a stick, it wouldn’t be at this house because there’s more of it than one stick can handle. We don’t live in a mansion or anything. It’s a modest three-bedroom home with a modest desert yard in a modest neighborhood. It’s no Taj Majal, but compared to the 800 sq foot apartment I had recently, which was probably the largest apartment I’d lived in to date, this house is formidable.
I love it, don’t get me wrong. It’s really nice to be able to spread out a bit. I feel a little like I’m back living at my parents house, as there elements similar to my home growing up in the ‘burbs. I keep expecting to come up the stairs and see my stepsisters arguing over who has a cuter Kaboodle or who used the last of the Aussie Sprunch Spray.
The thing is… we don’t have enough stuff to fill this place, which gives it a kind of empty feeling. It’s also so quiet and dark at night that when Mike is gone at work, I feel super isolated. I flip on every outside light and double lock every door and window. I also am totally unfamiliar with the sounds of this new place… the home and the neighborhood. I’m sure it will pass.
The “not having enough things” issue gives me anxiety, too. I want this to feel like a home… warm and inviting. And considering I’m here all day long, every day, I need it to feel cozy. That will cost money, of course, but more of a concern to me is having that much stuff. It makes my heart race — it freaks me out. It feels so… adult. It feels a little stifling and all I can think every time I buy something is “Great, more stuff to pack for the next move.”
