The first time I felt like a grown-up was the first time I filed a home-insurance claim.
It was the first winter in our gorgeous 100-year-old Tudor home overlooking the Vassar College campus. Due to a poorly insulated roof (*see “100-year-old Tudor home”) we experienced some ice damming (* see ice damming) which led to a significant amount of water leaking through our kitchen ceiling, creating several sizable holes.
I was in graduate school at NYU, I was working in an adorable Hudson Valley Bakery where the light fixtures were made of repurposed whisks and the regulars knew my name, and I was a newlywed and new homeowner. I had also earned a fellowship at a trendy food blog in New York City, where I traveled to the NYC Chinatown office two days a week. Mary Tyler Moore had nothing on me. I was successful pastry chef, writer and now homeowner with a hole in her ceiling, throwing her beret in the air with unbridled confidence.
At first, it was scary when the water came through the ceiling. Yet, my energy quickly shifted from anxious to smug invincibility as I navigated the claims process, worked with contractors and figured it out. I could figure out how to fix holes. (More accurately, I could figure out how to find other people who could fix my holes).
I have a vivid memory of standing on the stoop of the Chinatown building for my fellowship. There was a buzzer to let people into the building, but I hadn’t pressed it yet. I was busy. I was on hold with Progressive. I mouthed a silent "hi," or waved a preoccupied hello to a few of the full-time staff writers, as they made their way into the office. Did I mention I was busy? I was busy with adult things. My coworkers were my contemporaries, but I adopted a lofty air, while I imagined their overpriced, New York City rented studio apartments, living their single lives.
I was a homeowner. They didn’t have holes to worry about. They did not have to be on phone with the midwestern customer service agent that sounded remarkably like Flo.
I thought about my grand staircase that needed refinished and the new knowledge I had about insurance claims. I knew about ice-damming. And since I knew about holes, I knew about life. I’d hoped my coworkers overheard my very adult business.
The only word that comes to mind is “hubris.” It was of a Shakespearean proportion that only lends itself to tragedy, comedy, or both. I was on the prow of that ship shouting, “I’m the King of the World.” But I was Jack Dawson.
It was a beautiful home. It was one of the loves of my life, which I know is a strange thing to say about a house.
The house needed a good amount of work and I did it. There were windows replaced, doors stripped of multi-layers of paint and brought back to their original glory, knob & tube wiring replaced, light fixtures selected to honor the home’s history. There were repaired chimneys, a driveway paved and tree branches trimmed safely away. But like some relationships, it did not last forever, despite the work I put in. I did my best to support that house in becoming its best self. I don't think anyone will ever be as good for it as me, but there's that hubris stepping in again.
I think about those writers in Chinatown. Now, I imagine that they have penthouses. I hope that they have penthouses. I know that one of the writers, whom I liked a lot, was published in the New York Times. Knowing his success would make me very happy. In retrospect, he might have known something then that I didn't, but I was too busy fixing those holes to notice.
Repairing broken things in a house has become a tiresome and often tedious adult task. Our insurance cost doubled for when we moved and bought our next house. Did you know that insurance cost increases significanly when you actually use the insurance?
You did? I hadn't known that.
Sometimes, out-of-pocket is the way to go.
When we moved from that home near Vassar, some of the work I'd put in felt wasted. I'd poured a lot of energy into that beautiful Tudor and suddenly, the time spent fussing and preening the girl felt misdirected. Nowadays, there is no longer any exhilaration in experiencing the drudgery of adulthood. Like those colorful gum balls, it loses flavor after about three chews. Occationally, accoplishment of the mundane takes on a quieter satisfaction. I unpinned and used a fire-extinguisher for the first time a few weeks ago. I unclogged a drainpipe in the basement last week. I made an appointment to have the air ducts cleaned out. Today, I like my house, but its no great romance.
The Tudor was a grand lady. And when I pulled from her long driveway for the last time, I had a sinking feeling that there could be icebergs ahead.
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