While I jokingly complain about raising a tyke in a one-bedroom condo, the truth is that we've been pretty happy here. I take much pride in what I've done with the 800 square feet. I take even more pride in the lessons learned from living in such intimate quarters. And even as I have watched friend after friend move into their first homes and dream homes, I have never, ever, considered Tom and I to be roughing it. (A summer spent in a Mexican slum, where literally hundreds of families lived in shacks they built from salvaged trash, forever changed what I consider "poor".)
Yet the closer we get to the end of Tom's training (nine post-college years, most of which we've spent together), and the closer we get to moving into an actual house, the more I find myself daydreaming of what's to come: A porch. A fenced-in backyard. Two bathrooms. A pantry. A room for Nana and Papa to stay when they come to visit.
Meanwhile, Tom daydreams of sleeping, free time, and weekends spent at home.
What will we be doing this time next year? How different will our day-to-day life be? Today, as my thoughts had me in the clouds, reality tapped me on the shoulder. I remembered what my best friend told me after her boob job, a comment which, in my self-righteousness, I considered comical at the time. Though she was quite serious! She said to me, with a depressing sort of shock: "You know, these boobs haven't really changed my life. I'm still the same person." Well, duh, I thought at the time. But now... Why do I look at the speck of sawdust in my sister's eye, and pay no attention to the plank in my own eye?