Birthday Hono(u)rs

So, if you’re someone who knows me (and, let’s face it, if you’re reading this, then chances are you do, as last time I checked (today), I didn’t have thousands of followers, eagerly anticipating the next instalment of the comedy that is my life.  (And, good, thing, too, as I haven’t written any posts in ages)), then you know that my mother loved this blog.  She was my biggest fan and always wanted to read it in advance, providing editorial feedback and commentary.  So, I've found it really hard to write much since she died.  But, I am compelled to do so today.  Lucky y’all!

See, today is her birthday.  And, it is also the day I close (or, complete, for our British readers) on my own flat (or, apartment, for our American readers (OK, I’m going to stop translating and just assume y’all are fluent in Texish now (if this confuses you, see earlier point about knowing me)). 

Anyway, this is not a coincidence.  I am someone who needs symbolism in her life – for example, I quit smoking on Independence Day. I quit my job as a private practice lawyer on Texas Independence Day.  I was enrolled as a solicitor on April Fools’ Day.  You get the drift.  So, when I was going through the process of buying a flat, I was desperate to find something symbolic in it, for a variety of reasons.  And, you probably need to know more about this whole flat buying shenanigans to really get that.

Let’s start from the beginning, when I was 8.  Yes, 8.  (I have long standing issues…)

So, yeah, 8.  That was a pivotal year for me and my future.  It was the year I discovered that there were shoes in this world for which I had a visceral need – that if I didn’t possess them, my life would be devoid of meaning. Now, the shoes in question: pink Miss Piggy tennis shoes, weren’t practical. They weren’t really comfortable. But I had to have them.  HAD. TO. HAVE.

(Until I didn’t.  Which, unfortunately for me, was after I’d worn them once.  Natch, these were the last shoes for which my parents suffered my indulgence)  Fast forward a few years, and here, I am, a slave to my designer shoes.  And, save for one pair of 5 inch stiletto pink satin Jimmy Choos, I do actually wear them more than once (note to self: stop buying pink shoes). 

As a matter of fact, if you take into account the number of years I have held on to my shoes, the number of times I have worn them and the vast quantities of cheap shoes I did NOT buy as a result, then we’re talking about a real return on invested capital.  I mean, come on, it’s almost like I saved that money, right? 

Which would be a good thing, because there is another thing that happened when I was 8 that has shaped my life.  I discovered that I had expensive taste.  This came about quite innocently enough over a lobster, as it does.  We were on a family holiday to Ireland when my dad ordered lobster from the tank at an elegant restaurant. So, of course, I had to have one, too.  My grandfather was adamant that I was not going to like or have that lobster.  But, I am nothing if not tenacious, so lobster I had.  And, lobster I loved.  And, thus began the tradition of what my mom used to call “ordering down the right hand side of the menu.”  But, come on, quality does come at a price, right?

Well, it turns out that price is your ability to save so much as fifty cents.  Now, I’ve been lucky enough to have some well paid jobs, so I could, in theory, have a great nest egg.  But, you guessed it, instead I have Choos, Louboutins, Mulberry bags, gold and diamonds, trips to Tanzania, Australia, Thailand and, yep, a lot of lobster. (and, expensive champagne, too...)

But, I’m single and debt dies with you, so all good, right?  Well, another thing my mother used to say was that I had no safety net - that I travelled through life on the edge. And, that would be right – my goal was to have the richest experiences, not bank accounts.  But, a funny thing happened a couple of years ago.  I had a few unexpected expenses arise and I didn’t have the ability to pay them or the humility to ask my parents for money.  So, I put on my big girl shoes (still Choos, of course.  Paying dividends again on that investment!), worked it out and decided I was not going to be in that place again.  So, I started to (gasp!) save money.

And, here I am, finally able to purchase a flat!  So, now we’re past good and onto great, right?  Wellllllllll, except for that whole commitment thing.  Because another truth about me is that I don’t do that too well, either.  I moved every 3 years of my life growing up and I’ve held on to that belief that I need to be able up-sticks at any moment and go on the next adventure.  And, the thought of owning a flat felt like an anchor tethering me to Titanic.  And, I’m not going to lie, it still feels that way.  (Literally, I can feel an asthma attack coming on even as I type this.)

But, then, someone pointed out to me that property values in London go up on average of 4.5% every year.  EVERY year.  And, that means so do rents.  You know what doesn’t go up like that?  Yep, gold star for y’all -- mortgages.  And, I also woke up to the fact that London is not a city for renters – there are no apartment complexes or property management companies that are solely in the business of maintaining a rental market.  Nope, the rental market is supplied by individual owners of flats and these people are seeing their property values go up every year as well, and, guess what? They want to cash out on that.  So, they raise the rent or, more likely, sell.  And, when they sell, you gotta move.  Combine that with the fact that most people rent furnished flats and don’t take pets and you have a scenario where me, Sam and Pud could be out on our proverbials.  And, the new responsible Kristin doesn’t like the thought of homelessness.  Crazy, right?

But I do like the idea of more financial stability.  And, everyone I work with has incessantly reminded me that owning property in London is a solid investment – that I am not, in fact, stuck, but that I can be one of those people who actually make money on the flat as I can always sell or rent and reap my own little windfall.   One friend in particular, put it this way: it’s not your forever flat – just your first flat.   My American friends won’t probably get this, but they have this thing here called the property ladder and it works like this  -- you buy anything you can afford, sit back, watch the valuation increase, pay some principal, grow the equity and then sell up or rent.  Replace first flat with a better flat, a rung or two up the ladder.  Rinse, spit, repeat.  I’m sure you’re picking up what I’m putting down?

So, I decide, OK, let’s do this flat thing. I find one, we agree a price.  And then 5 months later. No, Americans, that is not a typo – 5 bloody months later, I am about to actually move. 

And, just as we are about to sign the contract, I panic.  I balk.  I decide I can’t do this.  I can’t commit.

And, another lawyer friend points out to me that I should think of it as a contract, not a commitment – hell, I am a lawyer, I am literally trained in how to get out of a contract.  So, a little more calmness ensues.  Then, it also dawns on me that even though I never actually committed to my current rental flat – I have inadvertently been there for 7 ½ years. Which is the longest I have ever lived anywhere.  And, as my dad says, not making a decision is making a decision.  Mmm, sounds like a commitment by stealth?  Or, more likely, apathy and denial. But, irrespective of how it came about, a commitment it has been.

(By the way, if you’re getting the impression that it takes a village to convince me to commit to something, you would be right.  We’re at 3 friends, my dad and the general populace of my work place so far.)

No matter, I am still about to pull out – I just can’t get across that final 5 feet. 

Until the seller proposes today, the date of my mother’s birthday, as the day for completion.  Ding, ding! Symbolism! I can do this, I have to do this; it’s a sign.  So I do what I always do when I have a big decision to make -- I take a deep breath, close my eyes and hold on. 

And, here we are.  No one would have been more happy for and proud of me for buying a flat than my mother.  She worried I had no assets (and, now, 4.5% YOY growth, people) and no stability in my life.   She worried that I hadn’t settled down and gotten married.  She wanted a lot for me, but I think that most of all, she wanted me to be taken care of, and in her frame of reference, that was what that looked like.  Well, I can’t magic up a husband and kids, but what is in my control is my ability to take care of myself.  And, I’m starting to get a handle on that.

So, I am pleased to be able to turn what would have been a really sad day for me into a day of triumph and tribute.  I am still terrified and panicked, but I am resolved.  (Plus, I already gave them all my money.)

And, as birthday presents go, I think I done good.  I honor her best when I am the daughter she raised me to be – generous, loving, gracious  -- and solvent.  I like to think she is somewhere having really expensive champagne in celebration with me today.   

I know I will be.