It’s all a process. You never reach the “end,” though we all try. One evolves toward ever-greater happiness through self-awareness. That explains the lift I felt when we turned down the foreclosure in the sagebrush. It wasn’t the landscape, though, but rather the restrictions. Turns out there was a subdivision. Our realtor sent us the three-page single-spaced list of all the things you couldn’t do, like have “equipment” sitting in the driveway. No tents or barns or fun things. Why even ask about a clothesline, right? Screw you, subdivision. Already looking like Mad Max out past the country club.
Just look at my wife in the sunshine. Panties drying in the cool dry air like God intended. So glad we dodged that bullet, man. Not due to any brainwork, either. The river flows inside its banks. I watch the mud and trees go rolling by.
Good for you for holding your ground.
We came sorta close. Not really, but sorta. I always expected the restrictive covenants would kill the deal, but the realtor took forever to get them to me.
And now we have another wrinkle: our former neighbor is poking around inside the house next door—it belongs to her but can’t be sold because both houses on this property are tied up in eternal probate over septic issues—and I think she has a contractor with her. Arrghh. Not that big a deal, we want to move in any case, but now the pressure’s on again, or just about to be.