Double Sinks & the Desire to Ditch it All

I hate change.

Actually, that’s not entirely true.

I love change on a very small level. I’ve moved furniture around no fewer than five times during quarantine. In the two and a half years we’ve lived in our house, our kids have swapped bedrooms three different times.

I routinely move the candles from room to room and flip flop the pictures on the wall. I paint and put up wallpaper and take down wallpaper and paint again.

My hair is long and then short, and then shorter and then long. Should I get bangs?

Maybe we should knock down a wall.

I have our barbecue guests put down their burgers to remove the huge metal awnings on the front of the house. I pause my Real Housewives episode to go out and saw down the phallic tree shrubs that are flanking our doorway. I paint all the countertops brown while Ben is out having a beer.

A lot of times, when I’m marching through the house with a hammer and drill, I think of my Grandma Hagen. Because, as the story goes, one fine day she had all the siding removed from the house while my grandpa was away at work.

Because she decided she wanted to.

And he couldn’t stop her.

I make small changes with ease, and excitement, and glorious Grandma Hagen gusto.

Now, big changes, on the other hand, make my go-for-it gears grind to an immediate halt. My spontaneity and risk-taking completely disappears. I’m unable or unwilling to make big life-changing change. And that’s not a bad thing, it’s just the way that I am. It’s the way I always have been.

I’ve been in the same job for twenty years. I’ve been in the same city my whole life. I’m angry when Target switches around their aisles. Big changes have always been too much...change.

However, recently I made a new discovery. I had watched every reality tv episode that Netflix had to offer, so I made my way over to Hulu to see what trash it could provide. And there I found it. House Hunters International.

The premise is simple. An obnoxious American couple packs up everything and moves to a foreign country where a local realtor shows them three different properties, none of them quite right.

Then the American couple leaves everything behind to make one of them feel like home.

It’s the perfect amount of drama. The husband wants a city penthouse with granite countertops, the wife wants a country castle with space for her goats. Neither wants to spend more than 800 US dollars.

They identify their must-haves in the home buying process. Classic charm and rustic character and modern amenities within walking distance to the beach and the cafes and the bars. Balconies with views of the country and a five-minute commute to the kids’ school and exposed beams and original sinks and a dishwasher. Neighbors but privacy. Spacious but cozy. New but old.

They explain that their deal-breakers are things that make them feel like they’re in America but also things that don’t let them live like they’re in America.

They say things like, “How am I supposed to cook classic Thai food in this classic Thai kitchen when it’s so small?!” in front of actual Thai people who cook classic Thai food in their classic Thai kitchens every single day.

A rooftop patio with a view of the Italian countryside but no double sinks in the bathroom? Assolutamente no.

The realtor hates the couple, the couple hates the couple, the views are gorgeous. And somehow, in the end, everything’s perfect. Exciting. New.

And suddenly, this wonderful trashcan of a show has ME craving change. Big life-changing change. The kind of change I usually avoid. Suddenly I want to pack up our things and move to Argentina. Or Prague. Or Budapest. (Ben’s a goulash fan.)

Somewhere far away, where I can sit with Ben and a local realtor and (politely) read off our list of demands and deal-breakers. Give us a view. Nice neighbors. A microwave. A spider-free bathroom. Find room for the dogs. A grill. A balcony that’s not so high that it’ll scare Will, but not so low that Mia will use it to sneak out in the middle of the night.

I want to ditch it all and start over. Double sink, single sink, a plastic bucket, I don’t care. Just give me something new to do.

We could sell it all, pack up what little is left, and take this Schmidt show across the ocean.

Start over. Start fresh. A big family adventure. New walls to paint and new walls to paint again in six months.

And while I suppose it’s unrealistic to jump on a plane for Jakarta anytime soon, I find myself fantasizing about it daily. And that, in itself, is a big change for me.

Up until now, the arranging and rearranging of the small details in my life have sufficiently satisfied any tendency to get too bored. But be it House Hunters: Embarrassing Americans Edition, or the fact that I’m about to be 45, or the growing fear that my kids care more about google than they do going places, something has left me suddenly wanting big change.

Or maybe winter and the quarantine just have the walls feel like they’re closing in on me.

In fact, the walls in the kitchen could use a little something different. Maybe some wallpaper.

Or maybe I should just cut my bangs.

I wonder what Grandma Hagen would do…