Did I tell you that my house is small? That she is a sweet, tiny, nurturing space? How is it then, that I fear she may just put me into the ground?
It is early November. I have been in a relationship with her for nearly twelve weeks--longer if you count the weeks before I was really committed. My relationship with this house seems to follow the path of most relationships. Attraction and cautious optimism in the beginning turning to excitement and delight as time goes by. I have gotten to really know her now, and I like her--I really do. However, we have hit a snag. She is a demanding little house and is far too consuming of my time. I have let her take over my life. I work all day trying to make sure I can meet the mortgage. When I come home she is there competing for my attention.
I slide through the door greeted by my two pieces of furniture--a small, borrowed (very hard) chair, and a lovely, comfortable, beautiful bed. The bed beckons always, but there is more to do. Painting and scraping and sanding and such. Endless! With each task I accomplish she seems so pleased. Happy to be dressed in her finest. It is seductive and I am her victim.
Two more weeks I tell you. I will be in. Boundaries will be drawn. She and I will learn to co-exist. I will take care of her and she will shelter me.