Around these parts, I generally write a post when the new season of the Bachelor or Bachelorette begins, then return to life trying to pretend that I’m not the kind of mind who actually watches these shows in lieu of Top Gear. Never have I bothered with a post at the conclusion of the “amazing journey” but this season struck a chord with me, as I’m sure it would have struck a chord with anyone watching.
We saw, on national television, the curse of the “one that got away.”
All of us go through this at one point in time, or at least the vast majority. Lose one, end up with another … some would call it settling, others would call it moving on. I’ve even seen it done in the couple-day turnaround we saw on the show.
It just depends on what kind of homes are on the market at the time.
(Wait … did you think I was talking about people? Silly readers …)
I can’t tell you how many of my buyers still can tell me about the house they didn’t get. Some were able to find others, some still lament being unable to purchase what they wanted either because someone got there first, they were outbid or, in one notable case, because they disregarded my advice and canceled on a home that since has appreciated to the tune of 30-plus percent in the past 20-odd months.
The ones who found others, they tend to be the happiest at the end. At some point, they stop idealizing the house they didn’t get, look around, and realize the house the purchased has become home in a way the other house likely never would have been.
It’s little different than Desiree, putting Brooks’ greasy hair from her mind, realizing that what she wanted all along was standing right in front of her.
Which, of course, was all presaged by Some Kind of Wonderful, when Keith lets Amanda Jones go and ends up with Watts. Which of course would happen, because who wouldn’t want Lea Thompson at the height of her powers when you had the chance to a tomboy Mary Stuart Masterson.
… crickets …
Anyhoo … there was something endearing about watching someone fall in love like they were in 80’s movie (albeit probably the most grasping of John Waters’ efforts, with so-called teen repartee that I sure as hell didn’t recall even though I’d graduated from high school only a couple of years earlier, with the most improbable ending.) I’ve often said John Waters damaged my romantic notions for the better part of a decade; I didn’t want to fall in love, I wanted to fall in love like in one of his movies where you look around the crowded room and just know … though it was easier to “know” when it always was Molly Ringwald you were supposed to fall for.
And is that so bad? Anyone of my age who would not have been cool ending up with Molly Ringwald? Olivia Wilde, after all, was a child …
… deep breath …
Frankly, I’m so far down the rabbit hole here I don’t know how to escape except to stop.
So cheers to Desiree and Chris, and cheers to Keith and Watts (like that really worked out … though all she had in her life was those drums and him … oy) and cheers to anyone who happened to think being Mr. Molly Ringwald would have been a decent fate.
And cheers to those home buyers, in the past and in the future, who don’t become so blinded by the
greasy-haired, oddly-fanged house they weren’t able to get and realize the home they were meant to have was/is waiting for them to open their eyes and see it.
* * *
Here … look at some homes in Canyon Trails in Goodyear while I try and figure out where this post went so horribly wrong.
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