The Five Year Rule

People often used to ask us why we moved as frequently as we did. I've always been hard-pressed to come up with an answer, but I may finally have one. We have lived in our current house for a little over our usual five years. And the little things are beginning to grate on my psyche.

I've never been a big fan (stop laughing, JC) of the previous owners of this house. There have been several instances of 'Harry Homeowner' DIY repairs that defied explanation. We've taken care of them, calling in professionals who shake their heads and figure things out and do it right. I am always quick to tell them that WE did not engage in any of these do-it-yourself activities. Any call to these assorted professionals is usually preceded by a period of cursing on my part, directed for the most part at the previous owners, as well as at the home inspector who cheerfully overlooked the item before we signed the contract.

In any case, in the past two weeks we have experienced both an alarm system malfunction (now fixed) and a microwave meltdown (not literally: the control panel just decided to stop functioning, and decided to bemoan its condition at the top of its voice.) I am waiting for the next equipment failure to make itself known--that is the way of things when you live in a house too long. There are occasional repairs, sure...but when they start ganging up on you, it's time to move on.

Sometimes it is simply the aggregation of little irritations that make moving seem sensible. Our last house was just too small. Squeezing past each other in its postage-stamp kitchen for the thousandth time was just the final straw. Or, in the previous house, banging my head again in the low-ceilinged basement--or killing the umpteenth tennis-ball-sized cricket. Or opening the refrigerator door that blocked all transit through the kitchen. It is, above all, the little things.

Don't get me wrong. I love this house. As I've loved every other one we've lived in, in spite of the flaws, in spite of the repairs, in spite, even, of the bumped heads and critter control. I've come to terms with the fact that there will never be enough bookshelves, there will always be too much stuff, and repairmen will be required to infinity and beyond. It's just that I believe our tolerances change, and it takes about five years for that to become evident. Just as we get the externals under control--the patio, the paint, the pantry, the storage--a new problem presents itself and we're done. This time it may be the four floors and the effect of all those steps on our aging knees. This time, it might be having to empty the storage space to get at the electrical box. Or maybe...this time...the microwave.