The day I fell in love—with real estate

It started with the front porch—it just smiled at me. And the dormers were like innocent eyes that invited me in to play.

As soon as I stepped out of the car, I knew I was going to make an offer.

I know I read a lot into a first meeting, but I’ve always been that way. It blew my real estate agent’s mind.

“Don’t you want to see the rest of the house,” he said, after I indicated I was making an offer.

“I suppose so, while we’re here,” I said with a shrug. But knew it was a formality. To make him feel better, like he was doing his job.

The tour just got better. Built-in bookshelves. A gas fireplace. Three bedrooms. After 20 minutes of looking around, I made it official. And a few months after that, I was moving in.

I am, of course, romanticizing my little Bellevue bungalow. To be fair, it was old—built in 1921. But to me, it was character. But parts were quite quirky. It had a boiler from the ‘60s. A stove from the ‘70s. And slanting floors from almost 100 years of tree roots coursing underneath.

Those things didn’t matter to me, though. This was my first home—all mine—and spending days sipping beverages from that porch was my quest. And when it was cold, snatching a book from the bookshelf and curling up by the fire. What else did I need?

Nothing.

PS: Let’s talk about the porch color for a minute. This was an error on my part. I promise it wasn’t 80s neon when I bought it. In my defense, I was pregnant when I selected what was supposed to be a Key West-style green. For me, an errant side effect of pregnancy was poor color decisioning. Every single color I selected when I was expecting was way too “extra.”