Self
Why Being the “Poor Guy” Didn’t Stop Me From Being Happy
Getting a front row seat to gentrification reminded me not to worry about fancy things.
My front porch’s jagged wooden planks were eager to trip guests. My interior floors creaked and groaned as I walked in. The roof was on its last legs. My AC could barely keep the house cold in the blistering throes of summer.
Doors hung askew throughout the house and my office door was unable to close at all. There’d been two separate rat infestations, one I resolved with a magnificently ruthless black cat. The other, with a few traps, but not before snapping my fingers on accident.
I spent 13 years riding this dusty saddle on the slow descent into disrepair. Candidly, the house probably scared off a few potential girlfriends. My current partner, Laura, later admitted, “Don’t be mad. But I almost didn’t date you because of your house.”
Yes, I could have easily bought something bigger and nicer, but I liked saving money and socking it away into investments. My property tax was only a paltry sum that didn’t induce soundless rants about the government as I paced my hallways. My electric bill was three Netflix subscriptions and not a dime more.
