first crush

I’ve fallen in love with a house. An old, rundown, oddly shaped house. It’s gone through many tenants, and I toured it once, when it was up for rent. It was perfect.

How do I know for sure it’s a full-blown crush? I’m rationalizing. I'm dusting away the quirks away with creative logic. That's love--the ability to see potential where others raise eyebrows.

For example, the yard is terrifying. A giant side-yard, overrun with shoulder-high weeds, a grove of unruly, snarled trees, and most likely a few woodland creatures. Instead of admitting that this would be a pain in the ass, I think to myself: what stress-relief weeding would become. I imagine myself, well-clothed to protect from spiders and sharp teeth of smallish animals, trekking into the heart of it all with a scythe.

Or, take the extremely long, narrow hallway that joins the kitchen to the rest of the house—I've decided there’s just enough room for a book-nook. Maybe squeeze a window-seat into the dormer. Cozy-chic.

Once I talked a walking buddy into trespassing (the house was still for sale, so we figured we could just say we were checking the place out.) We picked oranges in the backyard. If I’d had my way, would have spent the evening sitting on the crooked brick patio until somebody kicked us out.

My housecrush has recently blossomed to a fever, fanned by the flames of impossibility. Someone bought the house. Someone is fixing it up—he’s venting his aggression on the side-jungle. He’s taking out his long days rooting up the sagging front fence and putting in a (rather kitschy, if you ask me) white-picket number.

Once, while on a run, I saw him industriously rooting up old fence posts.

I opened my mouth and choked out, “I love this house,” and then, “and you’re making it look so good.”

“Well, thank you,” he returned, taking a step away from me. “Thanks a lot. My partner and I certainly enjoy the challenge.”

“You’re doing great,” I gulped, and jogged on, seething with jealousy, but also a little awed—this is the guy who can light the outdoor fireplace any time he wants. He (and his partner) are free to pick the oranges without a twinge of guilt. Perhaps they even see the nook-potential of the dormer window.

I like to pretend that I don’t have many real fixed dreams, that I’m content letting the current of life take me to what is next, and doing my best there. Outright expectations make me nervous. To outright try is to potentially outright fail.

But somewhere in the brick patio and beveled glass doors that lead to the kitchenette, I love this little white house enough to risk embarrassment and say, outright— I want this.

For now, I’ll try and keep content walking by (and perhaps staring in the window a split second longer than appropriate.) But someday, something stronger might develop. A girl can dream.