Home sweet home.

Wednesday is my two-year anniversary of being an homeowner. It's the single scariest decision I've ever made--scarier than moving to Memphis or to Austin, scarier than when I spent two weeks staying with a Spanish-speaking family in Costa Rica when I was 17, scarier than that time those geese trapped me on the Town Lake trail and I couldn't get by.

I looked for 2 months and toured over a dozen houses with my realtor, who was one of my dad's old frat brothers from San Diego State. Looked only south, past Slaughter Lane and far down on Brodie. And one stray place up north, but still within the metro Austin square: east of MoPac, south of 183, west of I-35, north of 71. And that was the one. I knew it the moment I clamped eyes on it. And the master bedroom closet sealed the deal.

What did I do the night I finally closed, the day I got the keys to my very own 960 square feet? I went on a bad date with a guy who was too impatient to wait 20 minutes to be seated for dinner and made us eat the bar. That guy sucked and I knew it; it was the only time on a date I've seriously considered making for the bathroom and slipping out the door. I kept hefting my keys the whole night, wishing I were alone in unit 101 instead.

Anyway.

I still remember what if felt like to open the door and see the condo as mine for the first time. Of course, I expected the keys not to work--like there would have been a mistake or maybe my loan app had been denied after all or I had forgotten to sign something. None of that: it opened like I owned the place. I did. And I saw every water stain, every crack, every scratch on the countertops. I half expected to immediately step on a rug that was covering a hole in the floor and to sink to my shoulders, trapped, like in Money Pit. It seemed huge: the responsibility, the commitment, the upkeep. I felt more tethered to a place than I'd ever felt in my life, after 7 moves before high school, 3 apartments in college, 2 in grad school. It meant I was staying in Austin for a while. Which was terrifying and suffocating and liberating and stabilizing all at once.

I painted all the walls myself. The kitchen sea-grass green, the bathroom yellowy taupe, the office a soft spring green. The master bedroom silver sage from Restoration Hardware, with a chocolate brown accent wall (the best room in the house). I retiled the kitchen and bathroom floors (peel and stick, but still; it's quite a chore). Painted the kitchen cabinets white. New shower head, new toilet, new kitchen fixture (ok, my dad did all these for me).

Also: a leaking laundry fixture, a rat that died in the wall, leaking flashing around chimney (three times), a horrible plastic bathtub that creaks like your foot is about to go through it with every step. Bent and broken blinds--which is my pet peeve--on three windows.

Nevertheless.

I love this place. It feels like home: some place completely mine, completely my taste, completely at the mercy of my design whims. And now, two years in, I won't have to pay capital gains tax if I ever sell.

Which I can't imagine.