“Ya know” my realtor began, while shuffling through a stack of comps for other houses in the neighborhood like mine. “People are going to want to buy this as is!”
“Well of course they are!” I replied, offering him a confused look.
“The walls have a fresh coat of paint and all the finishes are done!”
He stopped shuffling, looked up from the heap of papers and said, “No, I mean furnished…including the furniture!”
As my face morphed into another distorted facial expression—one of disbelief—the thought was incomprehensible. My entire house (with the exception of my sofa) had been filled with things I’d collected at yard sales, bargained for at flea markets and salvaged from the Salvation Army store. Twenty-five dollars for the gold leaf lamp, fifty dollars for dining room chairs, seventy dollars for the Danish teak armchair—not to mention all the discarded freebies I’d acquired from other people’s trash. All I could see was a bunch of junk—melded together due to financial constraints. (My exorbitant mortgage)
All I could see was me and the flea (market).
And because of said financial constraints—at least that’s what I told myself—I’d decided to sell my house.
While I scanned my realtor’s face for signs of a joke, I tried to digest his statement. It felt extremely odd to envision my parking lot brand of decorating as something to be sold as stylish.
“I don’t understand.”
“Well…everything in here works so well with the space. There’s a good chance people will want to buy it as is….completely furnished…like a designer show house!”
And as he said it, he swept his arm across my living room like a game-show hostess highlighting a coveted prize.
In the weeks that followed, as the stream of potential buyers intrusively marched through my abode, two things began to happen: I received constant praise for my interior infusions along with a mounting annoyance over the intrusion. Due to the latter, I decided to seek refuge from another upcoming open house, and escape to Palm Springs for the weekend.
As is my standard operating procedure when doing the desert, between digesting cocktails and a book poolside, I visit my favorite thrift stores and antique malls.
Thus, while rummaging through the contents of a local thrift store, I began to see it all differently—scrutinizing its value. Eventually I landed in a corner of the store—filled with crutches, bedpans and other various items to aid in ones decline. And (although quite obvious) the most disturbing thing came to mind: everything in the store, like my home, was a collection of discards from others, mementos once desired by people (most probably) gone from this world.
As I stood among all the castoffs—seeking opportunities for improvement—I began to reconsider my life. What will I leave behind? I thought. And who will I leave it to? Who will even want my collectibles…my discards?
And then a light went off. (No it wasn’t a lamp from the nearby shelf.)
Whenever I’d thought of owning a home, I’d always pictured it with a partner—me and my “husband” and a couple of golden retrievers. But instead, another reality appeared each month when it was time to pay the (exorbitant) mortgage. Alone. Which became the catalyst for shopping at the flea market!
Over the years, I’d changed and updated, reupholstered and replaced. Yet because I was single, my home still lacked value. I was alone, living in a house filled with junk—someone else’s leftovers with a mixing of me.
When I returned from the desert, several offers were on the table. Even one to buy it furnished! I could have gotten what I wanted. Or…what I thought I wanted: Freedom from my imperfect, albeit exorbitant dream. No bargaining involved. But as I hung my newest acquisition—-a Kay Blanco oil painting—in the perfect spot in my entry hall, things had shifted, my perspective altered. Aside from filling another blank wall, I’d also filled an important void: I could finally see the value in what I’d achieved alone…and on a budget!
With each acquision; with each new flea market find; I came to realize that I was never really alone. Constantly bargaining for, then bringing other people home with me, my house had become a sort of community center of good karma. For richer or for poorer, I came to realize I was right where I was supposed to be—surrounded by things that I loved. I’d finally found my happy homo.
So I took my house off the market, and stayed.
As a middle-aged gay man with no children and no partner, how I believed my life should look, determined how I saw it! Whenever I looked around my house, all I saw was junk and failure. Yet my realtor, along with the parade total strangers—albeit perspective buyers—that marched through my house, saw it as a designer show house.
And because of the attention I’d put into the things I found, fell in love with, haggled over and enhanced, the love showed and the junk became valuable! Why? Because, like the people who previously selected, bought and loved the chairs and paintings, the dishes and lamps, their souls brought additional life into my solitary home.
Although good décor is essential to most happy homos’, what I discovered (while rifling through the trash): is that the things you love and care for will always contain value—even when you can’t see it! And that shopping at the flea market was kind of like searching for the perfect relationship! Some people (yourself included) may not regard you as valuable—you may even get discarded a few times. But…eventually you’ll be discovered and desired all over again—by someone new.
And like each acquisition, with every person that touches you, you change and morph into something else. Something precious.
Don’t get caught up in what you think home should look like, otherwise you could end up like me. But….if you’re feeling restless and itchy—go pick a flea. Bargain for something you love. Take it home. Move it around to different spots. If you still don’t like it, give it away! Someone else will want it.
Soul has a lot of style! In fact….it’s priceless.
