I USED to own…

Now I’m FREE!

Like so many other suckers, I was hopelessly wooed by real estate at the height of home-buying mania. BUY NOW or forever languish in a chintzy apartment complex with bright white walls and eerily perfect landscaping.

So I purchased, happily and proudly. I renovated. I toughed it out when the furnace died, it rained indoors, and the whole house needed painting, a third time. I pledged total allegiance to the 100-year-old homestead and her quirky ways. When maintenance was a drag, at least there was the solace of being able to sell high. So very, very high.

Until there wasn’t.

Too dense to realize we were living in a bubble, too slow to sell before the economy hit rock bottom, I found myself selling amidst a sea of foreclosures in the fall of 2010. Not because I needed to find work, or the mortgage payments were outrageous. It was worse than rock bottom. It was rut bottom. My own personal hell of taking the same 7-mile drive to and from work every day, walking the same city streets with the dogs every night, going to the same gym, the same supermarket, the same pharmacy, and the same dog park 300 times too many. It no longer mattered that this is a great city, with great neighborhoods, and great parks, and great restaurants. The problem was me.

I mistakenly associated my nomadic ways with being in my 20s, when, really, it had nothing to do with age. I’m a mover. It’s as simple as that. Settling down in one location has no appeal, even now, at 39. Staying just long enough to decorate an apartment, explore the city, find all the best spots, and plan the next adventure—that’s still my M.O. And not even a mortgage, in a near-death economy, with a minimum of job opportunities, could change it.

So there. I’m a nomadic apartment dweller whose roots won’t take hold. I’m okay with tiny spaces, a minimum of possessions, and the option to opt-out with 30 days notice. Experiences mean more than stability. If I could do it again, I’d trade the new windows for a trip to Costa Rica taking care of orphaned sloths. I’d swap the new furnace for a safari in Africa. I’d exchange the refinished floors for surfing lessons in Southwest France. I mean, really, when you share a leisurely dinner, maybe a bottle of wine, does good conversation ever center around shellac or insulation? No. Because it’s boring. It’s not what will shine as a highlight in your life five years from now—but experiences will.

Lesson learned. Maybe four or five years too late. Which leaves me only one option: Double up on vacations, take up two new hobbies at a time, donate triple the time and money to the causes I care about, and spread the word to other unsuspecting nomads. Yes, there are $50,000 condos on the market right now, just think long and hard before entering into a contract with one.

Considering the climate, I got lucky. I sold in three months and made a small profit. I even had a chance to meet the new owners. A young married couple (just like I pictured) who weren’t even looking to buy. They just saw the house and fell in love, especially after spotting my painting by their close family friend. Kismet. I hope they use up as much creative energy as I did in the first few years of ownership, and love every minute of it. And that if they decide they’re done one day, they’ll sell without hesitation. Because a house is not a dream—American, European, or Asian. Dreams are dreams, and they’re special because they’re all different.