One of my favorite types of houses are those big, white suburban houses. Coastal with big windows to allow for good lighting and French doors, and a nice large porch.

I imagine myself living there in some northern state with my husband who’s a lawyer, my 2.5 kids, and my cat and my dog. The only worries I have are whether the cookies I made for my son’s class will be good enough to please grumpy, picky children.

It’s a simple life and ordinary life, and it’ll be good enough for me. At some point in time.

It’s not good enough for me right now. Right now I imagine my future as lavish and extravagant and unfulfilling in a strange sort of way. I’ll be living in a modern mansion on the beach in Oahu, walking out every morning in an expensive negligee to smell the salty air. I’ll have bright pink supercars stored in a garage the size of the house I’m living in now.

It’s not me. Not all of it, at least. But it’s something that I wish was me.

Greek houses appeal to me in the same sort of way. I’d be a rich socialite, travelling around as some sort of ambassador or political influencer. I’d be drinking wine with Greek men, walking with the air of a woman who had just bought the whole country.

It’s not me. I don’t think I have it in me. But it’s something that I wish was me.

I hope I end up in my big white house.


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