I don't know what it is, but I can't stand living where we're living anymore. The lack of electrical outlets, the mold that grows back in the shower (which has two settings: super-fucking-hot and rendering-flesh-from-your-skin-hot), the wood counter tops which are softening with age, the formica counter tops that were installed last year that pool water in random places, the cabinets that are hanging on by a solitary hinge, threatening to tumble at any moment and take us with them....
But then I come back to the rent. The rent is cheap. And the place is big.
We can save for a house! I keep telling myself. But even though the market is prime for buying, we're still not in a position to do so.
I have always had an internal cut-off point. That cut-off point is 40.
I can't live there when I'm 40, I told Will the other night. We'll either have to be ready to buy or just bite the bullet and rent a nicer place that's fit for humans to live in.
I've been thinking the same thing, he told me. That means we have a little over a year.
A little over a year?
Because you're turning 39 this year.
I raised an eyebrow.
Wait! he realized. You're turning 38! We have an extra year!
No matter how much older you try to make me, you know you're probably dying first, I reminded him.
I should be so lucky.
Photo © Lisa Jane Persky