Ya know,” my realtor began, while shuffling through a stack of papers in preparation for my first open house, “people are going to want to buy this as is!”
“Well of course they are!” I replied, accompanied by a confused look. “The walls have a fresh coat of paint and all the finishes are done!”
He stopped shuffling, looked up from the heap of papers and said, “No, I mean furnished—including the furniture!”
My face morphed into a distorted expression of disbelief; the statement was incomprehensible. My entire house (with the exception of my sofa) had been furnished with junk: things I’d collected at yard sales, bargained for at flea markets and salvaged from the Salvation Army. Twenty bucks for the gold leaf lamp, fifty dollars for the dining room chairs, seventy dollars for the Danish teak armchair—not to mention all the discarded freebies I’d acquired from other people’s trash. To me, it was just a bunch of restyled junk I’d melded together due to financial constraints. (Translation: my exorbitant mortgage.)
I scanned my realtor’s face for signs of a prank, while trying to digest his statement. It felt extremely odd to envision my parking lot brand of decorating as something to be sold as stylish.
“I don’t understand,” I probed.
“Well, everything in here works so well with the space! There’s a good chance people will want to buy it as is—completely furnished—like a designer show house!” And as he said this, he waved his arm across my living room like a game show hostess highlighting aIcoveted prize.
In the week that ensued—as the stream of potential buyers marched through my house—several things happened: I received copious praise for my “decorating,” Christmas drew closer, and I became annoyed by the home invasion. Due to the latter—seeking refuge from another upcoming open house—I decided to escape for the weekend.
While away, as part of my standard operating procedure—between digesting cocktails and a book poolside—I visited my favourite thrift stores and antique malls.
As I rummaged through one of my preferred haunts, scrutinizing the contents for good deals, I landed in a corner of the store filled with crutches, walkers and other various items to aid in one’s decline. And (although quite obvious) the most disturbing thing came to mind: everything in the store, like my home, was assembled from the superfluous discards of others—mementos once desired by people (now most probably) gone from this world.
While I stood among all the castoffs, with Christmas music wafting throughout the store, I began to reconsider my life and its value. What will I leave behind? I thought. And who will I leave it to? Will anyone want my collectibles—my discards? And, while Karen Carpenter sang (oddly) I’ll be home for Christmas, a light went off.
Whenever I dreamt of owning a home, I’d always pictured it with a partner—me and my “husband” (insert Stanley Tucci) and a pair of golden retrievers. But, instead, an alternate reality appeared each month when it was time to pay the (exorbitant) mortgage. Alone. Which, oddly, became the motivation for shopping at thrift stores and the flea market! Thus, over the years, while I changed and updated, rummaged, recovered and repainted, because I was single, my home still lacked personal value. I was alone, living in my dream house—filled with junk. I felt like a homeless homo. But was I?
When I returned from my weekend get- away, several offers were on the table; one to buy the house furnished! I could have gotten what I wanted, or what I thought I wanted: freedom from my imperfect, exorbitant, solitary dream. No bargaining involved. But as I hung my newest acquisition—a Kay Blanco oil painting—in the perfect spot in my entry hall, things had shifted. My perspective had been altered; all that seemed worthless and dead had suddenly come alive. Aside from filling another blank wall with the ideal piece of (fifty dollar) art, I’d also filled a significant personal void: I finally recognized the value in what I’d achieved alone—and on a budget!
Because of putting myself up for sale with every acquisition with each new flea market find and thrift store bargain, I came to realize that I was never really alone; that I was constantly bringing someone new, someone I loved, into my home. My house had become a sort of community centre of good karma. For richer or poorer, I finally understood that I was right where I was supposed to be, surrounded by things I loved. I didn’t want to give them up. Although alone, I’d found my happy homo. So I took my house off the market, and decorated its halls for the holidays.
As a middle-aged gay man with no partner and few role models for homo-home life, how I believed my existence should have looked, determined how I saw it! Whenever I looked around my house, all I saw was a second-hand dream. Yet, my realtor, along with the parade of strangers that marched through my world, saw it as a designer show house, something desirable. A home. And because of the attention I’d put into the things I found, fell in love with, haggled over and enhanced (sans Stanley Tucci), the love showed and the junk became valuable! Why? Because, like the people who previously selected, bought and loved the chairs and paintings, the dishes and lamps, their souls brought additional life into my solitary home. We were a “perfect” match!
While rifling through the trash, I discovered that the things you love and care for will always contain value, even when (sometimes) you cannot see it!
Things shift, floor plans change, life sets before you a stream of lessons to discover. And said lessons are much easier when, at the end of the day, you can go home.
So here’s my holiday (personal) shopper tip: Some (and sometimes you yourself) may not regard you as valuable. Occasionally you may get passed over and perhaps even discarded a few times. But, eventually you’ll be discovered, then desired, all over again, by someone new.
Like each acquisition, with every person that touches us, we change and morph into something else: something precious to someone new.
Thus, for some who are single, the holidays can occasionally represent feelings akin to my homeless- homo angst. So don’t get caught up in what you think things should look like. But,if you’re feeling lonely or restless and itchy, go pick a flea. Search, then bargain and buy something you love. Take it home or give it away as a Christmas present!
Because, soul has a lot of style! It’s the “perfect” gift. In fact, it’s priceless.
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