It's really not that bad and I know I should stop complaining and just be grateful that I have a roof over my head, a good man, two cuddly dogs to keep me warm at night, and a fancy laptop on which to write white whines to my heart's (dis)content. And yet. And yet.
We still don't have a book shelf. Or a kitchen table. Or headboards on the beds. And the water heater was leaking the other day, but I'm ignoring it for now. And the kitchen floor sinks in spots, but I'm ignoring that too. And the driveway floods every time it rains, which is every day, which means our porch and entry way is always speckled with dirt and mud. And the doors stick. And cabinets smell musty. And the dogs drool on the new couch, which is looking decidedly less new already. And, and, and.
A few nights ago I had a dream that we found an apartment hidden in our attic. It was huge - much bigger than the house (which made perfect sense in the dream). It had three bedrooms, a balcony, tons of cool furniture, and a huge kitchen with a long island in the middle. It was clear that our landlady had no idea the apartment existed and we decided she didn't need to know. We slowly migrated all our furniture upstairs and lived there instead. And it was perfect and lovely and beautiful, and suddenly life was amazing.
Most of the time, I like my house and - more importantly - I love the life that I am living while in it. But it's easy to get caught up in the idea that a perfect home equals a perfect life, even when I know that isn't true. Moral of the post: keep pinning, keep dreaming, keep planning, but never forget to be grateful for what you've got. And if it turns out that apartment really does exist, well, you'll know where to find me.