Open House
The third floor of my house is for sale, and I’m tempted to take it personally, but not in the way you think …
“Oh no!” I said, staring in horror out the bay window. “Not them!”
Behind me, Brian laughed. “We’re going to make excellent old people.”
I knew what he meant—the stereotypical curmudgeons, yelling at kids across the street who had absolutely no intention of setting foot on our grass to stay off the lawn you bastards! I shook my head and continued to watch the exceptionally boring-looking couple on the sidewalk opposite, staring up at the roofline of our cozy little three-family house.
The third floor is for sale, and today was the open house. Of course, it has nothing to do with us (we’re on the second floor), and yet we were both hopelessly, perilously invested.
“Why don’t you back away before they see you and decide we’re total creeps?” Brian asked.
“Maybe I want them to. Talk about a snooze-fest. These two look like they’d be knocking on the door for us to turn down the volume of the television at like—six thirty on a Friday night.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Just a feeling. I liked that other couple better, anyways.”
“The one where the guy dropped off the girl, then came by and looked at the place himself while she waited in the car when he picked her up again?”
“Right,” I said. “That one.”
“Um, they were weird.”
“I think maybe she was just vetting it first, and then when she decided it was worth it, he took an independent look.”
“Sure. That’s it.” He laughed again. “You’d better get in the shower. You have to leave for work soon.”
Easier said than done. Tearing myself away from the window bordered on painful. It was imperative I continue to watch—to silently or not-so-silently vet each potential buyer based on the superficial and constantly-shifting criteria of the moment. Finally, I checked my watch, and realized just how correct Brian was. Today was going to be one of those days I sprinted out the door because I’d left everything to the last minute. Reluctantly, I headed to the bathroom, started the shower, and as I stepped into the hot water, I asked myself:
Why do I care so much?
A Matter of Pride
I suppose we’ve been pretty lucky. When we bought our floor of this house three years ago, we came into a situation where the other owners were pretty hands-off. What’s that? You want to landscape? Have at it! You want to replace the rickety basement steps? Here’s a check for our portion.
We’ve had the extraordinary freedom to do as we pleased. To cultivate an aesthetic. To improve. And maybe as such, we’ve found the elusive unicorn of condominium living—a place where we’ve been able to feel more ownership than we actually possess.
All last week, I was down in the garden beds—cleaning, weeding, sprucing up. We put a couple rhododendrons in the shady problem-spot in the back, and surrounded them with shiny new pachysandra. Brian was the Mulch King, and as I wheeled twenty bags of the stuff over from the hardware store across the street on a hand truck, he spread its clean, fresh goodness over every inch of bare dirt still on our property.
Saturday, we walked to the farm and bought a couple gorgeous hanging baskets filled with pansies and deep purple daisies to hang by the front door.
Essentially, short of re-siding the building, we maxed the curb appeal. Ultimately, all the effort was for us, but in another way …
Wasn’t it also for this open house? Wasn’t it a way of saying, we love it here, and you’re going to love it too. We’re proud to live here, and this is the kind of people we are, and we hope you’re the kind of people who’ll want to sign onto this and live here too.
So fast forward to the open house, and maybe I wasn’t really greeting each prospective buyer with judgement, but with an underlying curiosity. A hope. Will you like our home? Will you like us? Could we be friends? Was my cursory acceptance or dismissal of each simply a guess at the answer to these unspoken questions?
We did our best to gussy the place up on the outside—to flaunt it. It was our contribution. Our best foot forward.
Pride Bruised
And I don’t know if it was enough. This real estate market moves at lightning speed. Typically units in the area sell within days of listing for well over the asking price. There’s a housing shortage, a tech and bio-tech boom, lots of money to go around. Condos are gobbled up for arguably more than they’re worth.
And yet, it’s the day after. The listing is still up—still for sale instead of pending. My initial reaction is to think: All you people are crazy! I can’t believe none of you snatched this place up! Talk about a diamond in the rough, and none of you could see it!
Of course, assumptions, assumptions. For all I know, there’s a bidding war going on, or someone needs another cup of coffee this morning before they can muster the energy to update the listing.
But there’s that nagging insecurity in the back of my mind that says no one wanted it—that this is going to drag on for months. I mean, it’s not a perfect listing. The third floor isn’t in the shape our unit is in, and it’s expensive, and a little far-out geographically. And also …
It’s old. For us, that was the charm. When we came to the open house for our unit on a snowy day in the beginning of March three years ago, we were horrified by the comments of some of the other potential buyers.
“… Maybe if we blow this wall out …”
“… Complete gut and maybe it would be livable …”
“… Just not modern enough. Where are the sight lines?”
“… Was looking for something a little more turnkey …”
“… Closets are kind of small, and there’s no room to put in a double vanity …”
Thinking of these comments—seeing the way they read—it’s easy to get the impression we live in some horrible hovel. That’s not true at all. We refinished the floors and painted the walls. That’s all it took. Neither this place, nor the unit upstairs, will ever be open-concept. It will never have large closets or a double vanity. But it will continue to serve the purpose it’s served since its construction in 1910:
Compact, efficient city living with a heaping helping of character.
So, sure. It’s easy to assume that a lack of offers to purchase is an affront to our pride—that it says that might be good enough for you, but I wouldn’t be caught dead there. And maybe that’s how I’m tempted to feel. But actually, I have a different idea, that begs a more important question:
Is it better to appeal to the masses, or be treasured by the few?
Fashion is cyclical. Gleaming hardwood floors were the standard, until carpeting was all the rage. Now, carpet is a turn-off and all that beautiful wood is back. For the last half-century or more, enormous living spaces have been en mode, but due to pricing and sustainability, smaller spaces are coming back into favor.
How long before all those open floorpans are gauche, and people want the separation of walls again?
It is incredible for me to think that when we purchased this place we were the only offer.
The. Only. Offer.
And we haven’t regretted our decision a single day. Where other people saw an endless list of projects necessary to make the place suitable for their lifestyles, we saw a place that embodied and accented the lifestyle we already wanted to live.
The truth is, we didn’t have a bottomless budget. If there’d been a bidding war, we probably would’ve lost. We saw the diamond where others saw coal.
So how could I want anything else for the floor above ours? There’s a buyer—someone out there who is going to see the place for what it is, accept, and celebrate it. And really, who else could we want for a neighbor? A friend?
What else could any of us want from life, other than to be accepted and celebrated for who and what we are. As is. No major modifications necessary. Because we can dress ourselves up. Put our best foot forward, and sometimes it still isn’t enough.
Except it is—at least to those who matter.
Share your thoughts! Do you see potential where others see a headache? Open floorpan or separate rooms? Do you want to be my upstairs neighbor? Let me know in the comments below.
Thanks as always for reading,
Gregory
