The first time I drove to my husband-to-be’s house, I distinctly remember thinking, “I will never live out here.”
We had met just a few weeks prior on a blind date. At the time, I was living with several girls in a historic row house on Capitol Hill, just blocks from the National Mall. Although definitely in need of repairs, the house we rented was full of character and charm – high ceilings, thick crown molding, enormous paned windows, hardwood floors, old chandeliers. I lived half a block from a metro stop and within walking distance of fun restaurants, unique shops, and the Smithsonian museums. It was a great place to spend my first four years out of college.
I was really quite smitten with this boy I had been set up with and decided one night I would surprise him with some homemade baked goods (I make a mean chocolate chip cookie). I never really ventured too far outside the city during my DC days, so when I drove 30 minutes deep in to NOVA that night to his house (warm cookies in hand), I was amazed at the suburban sprawl. The condos, the strip malls, the parking, oh my!
I grew up in Westover Hills, a neighborhood on the James River in Richmond, VA where old dogwoods and oak trees line one-way streets. Most of the homes were built between 1920 and 1940 and vary widely in style and size. We had sidewalks instead of garages and alleys instead of driveways. So, when I got off the exit to my hubby-to-be’s home, I just sort of stared at the scene before me: complex after complex of tall condominiums on one side of the road, and a town center on the other, full of chain restaurants, shops, and a hotel. I didn’t actually even see his home that night (he wasn’t there, so I left the bag of goodies waiting for him on his door – disappointing at the time, but a fun story in the end), but I had seen enough. I got back in my car and got myself back in the city, determined that suburban living was not for me.
But, as everyone knows, vowing never to do something is as good as making a date with destiny to do that very thing. Over the next two years, I fell head over heels for that suburban-loving man and would follow him anywhere. When he asked me to be his bride, I said YES! without an ounce of hesitation. Before I knew it, I was packing my bags and moving outside the beltway.
So here I am. From Westover Hills to Capitol Hill to one of America’s first planned communities. And blogging about it no less! I’ve actually come to love our little condo and the community we have here. Truth is, the people you live with matter more than the space you live in. I still can’t help but wish for a little crown molding, but I’m making the most of it and trying to give these 900 square feet a little suburban charm.
