The new view

I found myself home this weekend. In a building I've never lived in before. 

From the moment my separation went from undecided to permanent, the notion of selling our condo was a massive, looming crisis in my mind, representing many things: the removal of the pride of ownership; the emotional, physical and financial investment that went into it; the physical manifestation of my failures, and ours; the loss of the only home my son has ever known. Hanging over all of that was the increasingly fractured economy and the knowledge that we'd already lost 20% of the value of the home in 12 months. Putting off selling was a way to avoid the inevitable financial disappointment, even though the separation of our one primary asset was key to moving onward. 

Eventually, the passage of time and the unspoken calamity of my ex's financial problems pushed me into action, fearing the worst. The asking price, jarring. The market, depressing. Yet, we found a buyer in six days, close to our price. What a relief! 

Then the American banking system kicked in. Our well-heeled buyer couldn't get a loan with 5% down, unless we got our condo an FHA approval, which means that a government backed loan could be acquired. A two-week process formality, I was told. We'll still make the 30 day escrow, the realtor opined. What no one anticipated was that virtually every buyer in America (few though they may be) were trying to do the same thing. Run for cover under the patriarchal umbrella of the US Treasury. 2 weeks stretched to 4 and groaned into 6. The ex's financial calamity turning into a full-blown Katrina, as I help out in any way possible while trying to maintain a positive attitude and not hold it against her (which I successfully did).

Meanwhile, my transition period became an emotionally chaotic limbo. I had to search for places to live, but couldn't commit. A place I adored held out for me, but had to move on after 3 weeks, which felt like 3 years. The inventory of apartments turned completely over during a month. Nights on Westside Rentals and days on Craigslist led to information overload and apartment apathy. Everything came to look the same, everything felt stale. 

The only thing making it bearable was L. A constant fountain of positivity and support, I found myself wanting to include her in this process, and gaining her implicit approval of where I was going was niggling in the back of my mind. One of the things you lose with the end of a relationship is a sense of perspective. Even if you have relatively good taste (mine isn't impeccable, but it's generally solid in most things), when you find yourself alone, faced with all those decisions, there's a gnawing sense of inadequacy and fear - if I can't hold a relationship together, can I really decide what I should be having for dinner, much less where I should live, where I should raise my child? And schools, overpriced rents, geographic enclaves of the westside... it all felt overwhelming. Even as I feel more content and secure in my life, there's that slight scent of fear behind your plastered smile of confidence. 

Having L go through this with me was both empowering, and also a romantic ritual in which we were gauging each other in unique ways that gave each of us perspective in how we see the world and our places in it. Her insight was invaluable, and to walk into a standard-issue Santa Monica apartment and put myself in the shoes of, "well, I could make this work..." and have her look at me and shake her head - "no way" - was such a clear, demonstrable demonstration of confidence and faith that it made me adore her all the more. We were learning each other's tastes and preferences, which is both illuminating and also important. Crucially, we were finding that we have very similar perspectives on many, many things. As crunch time neared, and I had to view a key property without her, it felt as if I had only seen it with one eye.

Because, deep down, I know there is something special and intense taking place, and wherever I find myself has to be a place that is emotionally expansive. It needs to satisfy me, and Zach, of course. But there's this new influence in my life, one of exceptional taste and grace and competence, and that place needs to fit those emotions and perspectives.

I finally got the call that took 8 weeks - the approval came in. GO!

I race to choose where to live, but at that point, there was only one contender in El Segundo, a very unique 3 bedroom that happened to be in the middle of a parking lot, and a new entry in Mar Vista, that seemed intriguing. A week prior, Mar Vista and it's shitty school system wasn't even on the map, but Zach's presumed acceptance into a charter school nearby removed the geographic limitations that I'd faced. A tasteful two bedroom condo in a quiet, relatively upscale community with a pool and a hot tub. Big rooms, giant closets, and a strong, confident color palette on the walls. Though it wasn't in El Segundo, it stacked up over the Parking Lot. I chose it, and then endured 48 hours of the landlord deciding whether it should be me living in her property. As a homeowner myself, I think I understand the grappling. 

My landlord mojo held true, and I got the place. Literally 24 hours later I was moving in a blitzkrieg of energy that lasted for 3 straight, exhausting days. One alone, one with energetic friends and hired movers, and one with L and her sense of style, unending helpfulness, and an uniquely OCD sense of organization (I always felt I was an 7 on the organized scale, but she's well past a 10). 

But a funny thing happened on that first day of the move. The moment I carried in those first boxes of belongings, all alone, I felt a funny, funny feeling. 

I was home. 

A home that I didn't own, but one in which I felt liberated. One in which I felt my life was starting over in an open, honest and meaningful way. Full of potential and opportunity, and a new love that I can only pray never dies. During the entire move, I couldn't stop driving myself, pushing myself, because I wanted to get it done, get it finished, but also, I wanted everyone out so that I could bring L in and have her feel that same sense. 

And she did. There's something absolutely electric, and yet utterly calming, between us, where we both somehow understand what all this means, and what it could be. We sat in the hot tub together, relaxing after an exhausting day of moving, and it was pure perfection. In the four days since I've moved, I haven't thought about my own condo once, aside from the irritating, major detail that we haven't yet been paid for it - and won't be until next week. I put so much time and effort into turning that condo into my home, but it had become as dead to me as the relationship within it. People frequently asked me how I feel about selling, and today, I can only smile, and in all genuineness say that I feel great about the whole thing. 

I feel reborn in this new home of mine, and to have Zach tell me that he wants to "live here for the rest of my life until I die" only confirms that my instincts were true, my judgment was right, and my future looks much, much more inspiring than it had two months before.

And at this moment, I only wish L was here to share it with me.