The old place became the proverbial albatross around my neck.
It embarrassed me to have my own family visit. Friends too. Even the cable guy, or plumbers. After a couple of decades, anyone who walked into that house humiliated me.
Because the abysmal condition of that house reflected directly on me. It's run down appearance labelled me a Loser.
I am not a handyman. If I pick up a tool, blood squirts out of me ears. So I was not capable of "making repairs." In addition, I worked for chump change my whole life. When I should have been earning $150,000/year, I was earning $30K - a fucking joke. I just never made the effort. So I could not afford to hire a handyman.
One more thing - an intangible. I never believed in the life I was living. I don't believe in chaining myself to a mortgage, I never really wanted to. I never wanted to do the shirt and tie thing and work a predictable job. So I kind of didn't care. I did not look at the house as an investment that needed my love and care - I looked at it as a burden.
Which is why it is so ironic that the house ultimately saved us. Fate, baby - who knew?
That is why I keep going on and on and on about how happy I am. That 20 ton weight has been lifted off of my back. I am starting over with a fresh, blank canvas. And no mortgage. Living in a home I am proud to show off.
And now that I am acutely aware of what happens to a house when you neglect it, I am primed and ready to stay on top of everything.
I love this home. Carol loves this home.
Second chances, baby. Miracles.
F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote: "There are no second acts in American lives." He was wrong. This is my second act.
I intend to go out to thundering applause.
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