And I freaked out

I moved. Again.

I moved because I bought a condo. Last time I moved I was thinking about buying something but decided against it, because of responsibility and whatnot.

I took the plunge into homeownership because I found a place that I Zillow-stalked for a few weeks and then went to the open house. A couple days later I met a real estate agent, planned a second visit to the condo, and made an offer. Mine was the second offer and after writing a letter to the seller about how much I loved her home, my offer was accepted.

And then I freaked out. And then I calmed down with spikes of freak out. And then I calmed down. And stayed semi-calm. And then I began thinking it was all going too well.

And then I closed. And then I tried to buy a ring from my favorite jewelry lady. And then I found out that someone had stolen my debit card number and PIN and had been buying random shit at Houston-area Wal-Marts. To the total of about $1000.

Luckily my credit union was on it and reimbursed all the money, got me a new card, and all was good. But I was a little freaked out.

Then I moved.

I hired someone to pack and move me. It went okay, except for the fact that my couch wouldn't fit. Granted, I'd bought a new one but it hadn't arrived yet. But I freaked out. And then I had to figure out how to dispose of said couch since no one would take it (apparently no one takes used furniture anymore).

And then I was alone in my new condo. And despite not having done much all day, every bone in my body hurt

And.I.Freaked.Out.

What had I done? Seriously? What.Had.I.Done?

The first night in my place I couldn't sleep. Not because my brain wouldn't stop working but because I couldn't stop moving. I'd get up and just walk around because I could not be still for more than a few minutes. The next night I slept.

For about a week and a half, I obsessed over what was wrong with the place. It needed a coat of paint but I didn't have time to paint before I moved. I didn't have any furniture other than my coffee table, a wash stand, my bed, a dresser, and a dorm-room butterfly chair. It was kind of fun at first, but after a week or so it began to feel like I was living in a storage locker.

Then my new sofa arrive and I forgot about all the things I had found wrong with the place. Then I bought a rug and a new coffee table, and it looked like someone lived here. It looked like I lived here.

And then it felt like my home. And I loved it even more than I did when I first saw it.

Buying this thing was terrifying. And overwhelming. And I freaked the fuck out multiple times. But I love it.

I have one of those weird combo washer-dryers. And despite the reviews I read on Amazon and elsewhere, it works pretty well. It takes three hours to wash and dry one load of laundry and for more than one person, it would be too small. But for me? It's a great size.

My weird little washer-dryer combo. And my cork kitchen floors. 

And I have a blue bathroom. Blue. My place was built in 1951. The bathrooms were either blue, pink, or green. When the woman who sold it renovated, she didn't rip out the original fixtures, she accentuated them.

My blue bathroom. And my awesome black cat shower curtain.

And it is all mine. Mine.

And I love it.