For the past couple of months I've made it a point to go for a walk every evening, or most evenings after supper to burn off the calories I had ingested. I was growing tired of my midsection expanding further and further and needed to do something to put an end to that nonsense, so I started taking long walks. So far I've lost ten pounds since winter, not a lot, but the weight didn't come on suddenly either. It was a gradual gain and will be a gradual loss.
This post isn't about my weight loss, it's about what I discovered a month or more ago on my walks that has reminded me of my failure in life, my failure to have a good job or career, to have money in the bank or even for recreation, let alone for retirement and what have you. It stands on the corner of Washington and Middle streets in my home town, in all of its Victorian, tan brick, and purple shingled glory. Yup, a house. But not just any house, it's the house that since I was a young girl had dreamed of owning some day. Some day, when it would go up for sale, when I was an adult and had a job and money, I was going to buy that magnificent house and it would be mine. This house right here:
|Not its best side, but look at it, it's so pretty!|
I love this house, it has a mysterious, creepy old look to it, like a witch would live there, and that's what has drawn me to it. It fits my personality and style. And it's for sale. At a great price. And I'm too broke to buy it, and my credit is too fucked up to even get a mortgage to pay on it, thanks to my past dumb decisions and a certain ex who drove my excellent credit into the ground.
So therefore I walk past this house, depressed that I may never have the chance to buy it. I daydream as I walk past it that I will one day live there, and landscape the yard and make it all so pretty. But it's all it is, a daydream. Someone will snatch it up before me, without doubt, and whoever does, I hope they take good care of that house. It was my dream house, since I was a girl. And it looks like it will remain that way. (And BTW, I learned it's 123 years old. The history!)
As much as it depresses me to think I could never own 404 Washington St., it also gives me a bit of a kick in the ass to do something about my shortcomings. It's a reminder that if I want something, I need to do something and stop this moping. Get to work on my dreams instead of relying on others, and don't let anyone talk me into doing something I know in my gut is wrong and will ruin me. This house is telling me I need to work on my dreams, I need to become more self-reliant, need to build up something for my life, because when a golden opportunity does come and I'm no where near ready for it, it will pass me by. So I'm back to working on my books, looking to find work and start new on my life, and that means without a significant other. I must hold myself up first and foremost, and not let others bring me down. I will have a career in writing, whether I make millions or a pittance, I will succeed one way or another. Though millions would be nice, I would settle for enough to be able to afford a good down payment on 404 Washington, but to do that I need to get to work and get to writing.