Would-Be Beach Dweller Suffers Seller’s Remorse
A funny thing happened on the way to my California Dream.
A few months ago, I decided to sell my funky little Mt. Washington house-with-a-view and move to the beach. After all, isn’t a house at the beach the ultimate in “California dreaming,” especially for a child of the ‘60s?
My Birkenstocks cry out for the feel of sand. Sun-streaked golden hair and freckles will make me a “California girl” no matter how old I get. And my white VW convertible looks perfect on PCH. My friends concur: I belong at the beach.
Sure, I’ve heard about the crowds and the noise and the crime. So what if it takes me an hour to commute to downtown everyday? The salt air will rust my car and the dampness will mildew my shoes in the closet. I’ll mortgage myself to the eyeballs for a postage-stamp-sized piece of beach property. But who cares? It’s worth it.
Every time I go near the beach my resolve to move deepens. I visit friends in Santa Monica and the air feels so different. I attend a weekend seminar in Del Mar and my lungs can’t seem to get enough of the salt air.
I meet a friend for lunch in Laguna--the foaming surf whooshes just yards from the terrace where we enjoy our salads and iced tea. I dine with friends in Ocean Park and drink in the ocean sunset along with my wine. It seems each encounter with the beach beckons me.
Beach living will be wonderful, I fantasize, with biking, skating, jogging on the beach at sunrise. Outdoor living at its best--instant physical fitness, sun worship and beach barbecues.
A jogging buddy suggests a realtor who found her sister a beach home. I call, we chat, we make plans to meet. I give her a phone description of who I am, how I want to live and what’s essential in my beach home-to-be.
I want to look at a wide variety of options: condos, duplexes, single-family houses. I like both very old (Craftsman, Spanish, Victorian) and very new (stark, avant-garde). A few days later, we meet and head off in search of my dream house.
The fourth house we looked at was it-- a beautiful turn-of-the-century California Craftsman in Venice, two blocks from the water. I was in love. The downstairs was classic beauty--hardwood floors, beamed ceilings, Batchelder tile fireplace, two bedrooms, library and sun room.
Upstairs, the attic had been converted to a spacious loft with skylights and track lighting and a tiled bathroom replete with sunken Jacuzzi tub. It was a master suite to die for.
My dream seemed within reach.
In this love-at-first-sight state of mind, I sprang into action. First, get my Mt. Washington house on the market. Piece of cake. Up went the sign, on went the lock box, out went the multiple listing. Next, research loans and creative financing.
Called mortgage brokers, bought a book on equity sharing (minor detail: my dream house was about 50% more than I could afford), and checked out friends and family who might want to buy with me. The karma seemed favorable and things appeared to be falling into place.
That’s when something weird started to happen.
Less than 24 hours after listing my house, a couple came to look at it. My intuition told me that this was fate, not coincidence, and they would love it. I started to feel a twinge of possessiveness.
Then came the Friday caravan of agents. The Santa Anas were blowing, the view from my little hilltop hideaway was magnificent, and the agents raved about the house and its view. I puffed up with pride.
Another couple came to look, oohing and aahing over the golden hardwood floors, spacious rooms, original tile work, terraced hillside garden and of course, the view. (The Santa Anas were still at it.)
The first couple came back again with friends in tow. As their eyes glanced around they were imagining their things in my house. They asked me lots of questions, such as about permits, water pressure and who the neighbors are. Psychically they were moving in. I was nervous.
The following Saturday turned out to be the critical day. I was puttering around the house, reading the paper, doing the laundry, playing with the cat and enjoying my day at home.
I don’t know what it was--the light, the cool breeze in the wind chimes, the smell of eucalyptus trees, the sun-warmed floors--or maybe it was all of that, and more. All I know is that I was looking at my house through new eyes. It was beautiful.
I called my agent and told her I had re-fallen in love with my own house. I knew about “buyer’s remorse,” but this was something new and strange. This was “seller’s remorse.”
I must have been crazy to even think of selling it. This house was perfect for me. How could I give up that top-of-the-world view, the five-mile drive to work, the rustic, woodsy community with eclectic neighbors and their eclectic (sometimes eccentric) homes?
My seller’s remorse experience reminds me of a 1950s movie I once saw.
The heroine, who was married to a great guy, began to take him for granted, and someone new caught her eye. Then, suddenly she realized that other women found her husband attractive and were paying attention to him. As she looked at him through their eyes, she saw all the qualities that had caused her to love him in the first place.
Sort of like me and my house.
Real estate imitates art.
