On Moving, Possibly Not Very Far

There’s a possibility that we’ll be moving within the month.

We live in a house that was converted into apartments sometime in the distant past.  The company that performed this probably monumental task is called Creative Restoration, and they do good work.  Not only do they revise old houses into spiffy new apartments, but each of their apartments has character, is unique, and expresses flair in countless little buttons pinned to the walls.

Because of this – and because they have always been quick to respond to problems and great at repairing them – I constantly recommend the company to my friends trying to find a new place.  And I’ve constantly tried to convince friends that they should move into the house where I live whenever an apartment opens up.

There’s the rub.  See, apartments rarely, if ever, open up.

Why?  Because the apartments are great and the management company is also.

Over the course of the eight years that I’ve lived here, people have moved out of the house four times.  In several of those cases, the apartment never even went on the market because it was handed off, instead, to family or a friend.  My friend Bill just took an apartment with Creative Restoration and, apparently, was able to do so because the people who lived in his apartment moved into the one next door when it opened up.

The apartment below us is empty.  The crew is in there refinishing the floors, repairing the walls, generally cleaning everything up real good and nice.  They’re even installing a washer and dryer.  And we totally could’ve moved in if my landlord had had my correct phone number so he could’ve contacted me when the lined-up renter backed out.

So, instead, our back downstairs neighbor is moving up to the front and we’re first on the list for optioning Matt’s old place.  And, friends, Romans, countrymen, you may soon enough again be able to share a domicile with Andrew and Megan, if you keep your ears open.

But what is this fascination with moving?  If we’re planning (vaguely, but still a plan) on leaving Houston anyway in the next few years, why then move again while we’re here?  The apartment is comfortable, is decorated, is set up nicely, is everything we could want minus a washer and dryer: so why?

Excitement, possibly.  Who can deny the joy in moving into a vacant space, now you’re own, all fresh and gleaming?  The wooden floors are newly finished and they glow in the yellow light of evening.  The white walls are newly painted and ready for paintings, pictures, random bric-a-brac.  And the space is entirely new to us, allowing us to reform what our home is like.  We can reinvent ourselves.

Antsiness, definitely.  I’m used to moving relatively frequently.  Okay, I’ve been in Houston for eight years, which is not the sign of a frequent-mover, but for all my life leading up to that point I was relatively rootless, and happy that way.  I like moving.  I like finding myself in a new city and making a home for myself in that strange-to-me community.  Moving downstairs is not quite that, not quite that at all, but it’s a poor man’s substitute.

If I wasn’t a poor man, I’d live in this building and invite all my friends along.  Dare say you’d refuse?

Wooden House

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