So … I bought a house.
It is completely surreal, in a great and slightly terrifying way. I keep finding myself modifying how I tell people: “My parents and I bought a house together”, or “It was a family decision”. But even though my folks helped with getting the mortgage (their credit rating is perfect with a number higher than I think anyone born after 1978 could ever reach, whereas mine is just a frowny face), it’s my house that I get to paint and decorate and have to maintain and will be making payments on for the next 30 years.
I have never felt more adult and responsible as well as so panic-level inexperienced. I’m a home owner! I have no idea how to unclog a drain or fix a leaky faucet! I have a big yard and can plant a garden and have fabulous garden parties! Except I’ve never as so much mowed a lawn! There have been so many times during this process when I wanted to back out, thinking that there had been a huge mistake made. I can’t own a house! Grown-up people own houses! People who have real grown-up jobs and responsibilities and a retirement plan! And then I realized that I have all of that. At some point in living my life, I became an adult. It’s funny how that happens.
Of course, the first thing I did was slide across this floor in my socks for, like, an hour. Because I can.