Fifteen years ago Rich and I bought our first house. Despite our grand plans of living in it for a few years (at the time we moved in I was pregnant with Harrison. It was early enough in my pregnancy that I still looked good) it has turned out to be the only house we’ve bought. Sure, there have been others over the years that almost happened, but, at the end of the day, it seems increasingly likely that this is the house we will live in for, well, the rest of our lives.
Over the course of our life here, we’ve made changes both large and small. Painted walls and cabinets different colors, added a familyroom, switched inhabitants and titles for various rooms, switched up window treatments, bought new appliances…the regular stuff. But today was the day I’ve been waiting for since the hot, hot summer of 1994. Finally, after years and years of (mostly) patiently waiting, we now have central air. Gone are the window units which did the trick, but not without a lot of noise, blowing and pockets of ridiculous hotness. Walking up the stairs from my air conditioned familyroom to my air conditioned bedroom felt like an ascent into hell. Getting out of the shower required me to move with enough speed to get to the air conditioning while trying desperately to avoid moving too quickly,thus breaking a sweat. And drying my hair in the summer?? Not a chance. It was ugly.
But today all that changed. It took a week of drilling, sawing, ducting (or whatever you call putting in duct work) and general commotion, but was well worth the wait. I returned from the supermarket, got out of my car into the thick humid (generally disgusting) air, walked into my house and was the happiest I have ever been to be home. Ever.
Sitting outside my porch is the “Porsche of all central air units.” These were the exact words Victor (heretofore known as the Russian man who changed my life) used which, I’m starting to realize, may have been a horribly ironic choice of words. Rich, as faithful readers know, acquired (as part of his mid life crisis) a little Porsche. It has sometimes been a bone of contention between us with me often inquiring as to why he has a Porsche and I, um, don’t. Damn it all! Now he can say I have one, too.
