I’m moving to Plano. Yes, I am moving to a city that was just named the sixth most boring city in the country. Not the state, the COUNTRY. And, if I have anything to do with it, I’m going to take that city all the way to number one. What does Plano stand for anyway? The land of the plain? And what does that make me? A Planoite? A Planotitian? A Planotoid? A Planoist?
I closed on my new house Friday and my current house hasn’t sold so that makes me officially house poor. No, I’m not panicking just yet. But it’s hard to get excited about my new house when I know I’m responsible for two mortgages for the unforeseeable future. Last night, I circled the block while a couple wandered through my home of 8 1/2 years, opening doors and drawers, taking inventory of my mess and judging — positively or not — my decorating choices and organizational skills. And I cried.
What have I done?! I’m leaving the only home Emma Kelly has ever known. I’m leaving neighbors who love us like family. I’m adding another 10 minutes to my morning commute and there’s no telling how many times I’ll have to pray to the Lord for forgiveness for the words that spew out of my mouth when I’m stuck in rush-hour traffic on the tollway. I have to learn how to navigate a new grocery store and I have to find a new dry cleaner, pedicurist and vet. I have to figure out how not to be a pariah in a neighborhood filled with lovely 2-parent homes. This could be the biggest mistake of my life or the best decision ever.
Meantime, the couple spent an hour in my house, which is a good sign. They went home to think about it overnight. Now, if you’re a praying person, I’d appreciate you saying a little word that if this is the right couple to buy my house, they’ll be the ones to get it. I want to sell my house to people who will be good neighbors to the ones I’m leaving behind and not a couple of ornery curmudgeons.