Tastes of middle age

On the way to bed, I look back at the living room, piled high with boxes. The most burdensome are from my parents, Amber's Christmas presents, which we are not permitted to open for another ten days. A few are boxes I've packed full of books. Amber's idea was that I ought to pick my absolute favorite or necessary books to move to the new house, the implication being that not all will make that 9-minute trip--nor that all deserve to. Looking at some I have accumulated, they are not all gems, including a middle school literary magazine from an ex, which somehow slipped through four other moves to get here (and which I mail back to her with pictures of her father, grandfather, and beloved dog--all deceased--I found while going papers).

A psychic nudge brings a wave of sadness. The crowded shelves are barer and disorganized. We will leave the apartment that has housed most of our relationship. The time for backing out was a month ago, not that I want this. I find the notion saddening that our home will become a just place again, that strangers will occupy it, unaware of all that has occurred here. I expect the landlord will completely gut and renovate it, which is emotionally helpful and galling. I'm permitted to feel this without seeming I do not wish to move to the new house, where we will have enough space that I will have an office.

"They would sue us," Amber says when I share this thought.

"Who would?" I ask. "The sellers? We could say we are just that dissatisfied with their mold remediation."

Among the few repairs we requested (pillars need fastening, wires are frayed, outlets need covers) was obliterating the massive though shallow colony of mold in the attic because the tube for the bathroom vent was not connected to the outside. The seller's possible solution was covering it in mold-killing primer and calling that good enough, which might be in some technical way, but it is sloppy, and no professional had a hand in it. Its aesthetics bother Amber, but it is in the attic. No one will see it. We do not have evidence they did not correctly remediate it before inelegantly painting.

It was my birthday today. As we were leaving dinner, my mother mentioned how she hates that I am now forty-four, though I feel little on the topic. I joked that I had accomplished so little since I only had nine books out--and that I would have another three available if Amber's hyperfocus had pointed at my bibliography rather than unimportant things like the specifics of buying a house. A fourth book needs revision, but we'll go through the query grinder again rather than my harried spouse. A fifth is being cut apart and reassembled again.

Amber replied that buying a house is an accomplishment. At twenty-five, maybe. At forty-four, it is a purchase of debt that might outlast one. As Amber is thirty-six, we can split the difference.

They said that the elements of it are an accomplishment, but that is a matter of having married well to someone who has the head for all this realty nonsense and a desire not to breathe radon--and the anxiety to have internet-enabled air monitors. I throw my weight behind marrying well--too many people do not, one way or another--but buying this house is nakedly nested obligations and expensive. It has no charm yet. Ask me again once I've had my first night there, after I have written a chapter in my office.

My brother Bryan spoke of not wanting people at his job to call him "Doctor" even though he will have his doctorate in a month.

"You have not been in school this long to be humble about that title," I said.

He seeks scuba certification and has a list of other hobbies he pursues in lieu of a wife and house, including monthly travel around the country. If the union realizes his value, his salary might jump to $200,000, which should buy either a wife or house (absent the chunk of student loan that will nibble away until he is dust). He has put in the work and doesn't want the credit if it might cause him to be called Dr. Quack--a fair concern, but I resigned myself to just being called Quack at work, so why not have the dignity attached?

Aside from my usual Latin palindromic "sole medere, pede ede perede melos" (heal with the sun, get appetite by walking, and publish your works), I have no strong aspirations before I am 45, which does seem more than a year older than 44. I will settle into my house with Amber and persist in what I love. It is enough.

last watched: Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man
reading: Once and Future Me