Cheating

Normally I’m not a fan of people who cheat on their loved ones. It’s selfish and more than a little narcissistic. And no matter what happens, someone always ends up alone and feeling empty.

But I’ve been doing it myself lately. More than lately, in fact; it’s been going on indiscriminately for a few years now. Sometimes I just look. Sometimes I engage in long, earnest conversations about what I want and how I like it and what I think I’ll find that is going to be better than what I have. Sometimes I go all the way in, and in those instances I’m all hands, exploring crevices, feeling surfaces, poking into places that don’t normally ever see the light of day.

And it feels good. It fills me with excitement and promise and a sense of purpose and even a little validation when I see what I, as a 38-year-old who’s been around the block a few times, can actually get.

And this weekend I think I’m gonna take it to the next level. Lives will change. Things will move. Checks will be written.

This weekend I’m going to make one last visit and decide once and for all if I’m going to stay with the one I’ve loved for more than five years or move on to the one I barely even know.

But with two bedrooms and two bathrooms and a balcony and a washer and dryer and central heat and air and 1,200 square feet of living space for just $250,000 all in a neighborhood that’s poised to explode in the next year—if not the next few months—you’d leave your beloved shoebox in the sky behind too.

If I buy this place, I’ll have storage I’ve never even allowed myself to dream about and restaurants right outside my door and room to entertain groups larger than six and space for guests to spend the night and two different rooms to poop in. And I’ll be house-poor for a while until the numbers shake out and I get my raise at the end of the year but I probably won’t even care.

And while this blog will still claim to be north of Foster, it will be living a dirty, ugly lie. But I’ll have two rooms to poop in, so watch me not even care.