Issue #66: I don't want to buy a house — not now, maybe never.
That doesn't mean I'm throwing away money on rent.
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I’m 29, and Sam is 34. Our friends are either buying their first homes or bemoaning that they can’t afford to. When I tell people we moved into a new place, they say, “Good for you!” and I have to self-consciously explain it’s not ours.
But here’s the thing: I don’t want to buy a place. Not now, maybe not ever.
Sam emerges from the basement, his face grim. “At least two inches of water,” he says. We’ve been getting bombarded by rain, and the basement has flooded.
I’m only mildly stressed — and that doesn’t change when our landlord, who lives in France and is probably fast asleep, doesn’t answer our calls. Realistically, what’s the worst that could happen? We have to call an emergency plumber to pump the basement? We’ll be reimbursed by our landlord (a very nice, good one, which is obviously an important variable). I don't want water damage or mold or structural issues, but at the end of the day, it isn’t my problem. I’m just adjacent to it.
I feel the same way when a small piece of our wooden ceiling abruptly cracks off, the outlets on the top floor stop working, and the bushes in the front grow aggressively big and shaggy. These things are inconveniences. I’m not happy about them, but I am beautifully, blissfully removed from their solutions.
I wouldn’t be so sanguine if we owned the place. Whatever house hypochondria is called? I’d have it. I know this because when it comes to my body, which I feel debilitatingly responsible for, every ache and pain is a potential tumor. I’ve convinced myself dandruff is head lice, an ingrown hair is a tick bite, and a stubbed toe is broken. A few years ago, I famously told Sam I had a pinched nerve in my arm and needed to go to urgent care immediately (having learned online an untreated pinched nerve could lead to permanent nerve damage); right before we got in the Uber, I rolled up my sleeves to discover a too-tight hair band had slowly been cutting off my circulation.
So to see a piece of ceiling land meteor-like on the floor and think That’s too bad instead of Termites?!? is a blessed, blessed relief.
When tech companies start doing layoffs — tens of thousands and then hundreds of thousands of people — I lead Sam through a relentless series of what ifs. What if you’re laid off? What if I’m laid off? What if we’re both laid off? What if we can’t find new jobs? And every route leads to the same comforting conclusion: we’d dial back on eating out and clothes (me) and rare vinyl (him). And if we needed to, we’d find a cheaper place. It wouldn’t be fun, but we’d shed this house quickly, easily. It’d be different with a mortgage, we keep saying. You can’t shed a mortgage so easily.
Not feeling responsibility for the house doesn’t mean I don’t love it. I’m head over heels for it. Our bedroom is the smallest room in the house and looks out into the shady yard; it feels like a treehouse. My office has a glass-paned door and high ceilings, and I’ve positioned my desk so I can watch birds eat berries from the juniper bush outside. (The same bush that definitely needs pruning.) Our kitchen still has its original brick and wooden built-ins. It’s my platonic ideal of a house.
I might love our neighborhood even more. We’re five minutes from three coffee shops, four grocery stores, a butcher, a wine and cheese shop, and fifteen great restaurants. I can walk to Union Square in ten minutes and Harvard Square in twelve. Our street is quiet. A few times a year, the neighborhood throws a block party.
You might be thinking, If you love it so much, don’t you want to ensure you can live there as long as you want? If we weren’t renting, we wouldn’t be here in the first place. The friends who have bought have mostly left the city. When, out of morbid curiosity, Sam and I wander into open houses near our place, the list prices are expectedly exorbitant. A brand-new house with a flickering fake fireplace and five bedrooms is going for $2.9 million. “It doesn’t even have a yard!” Sam whispers to me as we leave.
Which brings me to: “throwing money away on rent.” Bluntly, I’m sick of hearing this. It implies renting is silly, wasteful, even immature. That you can’t have it figured out, that you’re not a true adult, until you’ve bought a home. It’s a close cousin to the pressure society places on women to get married and have kids — and the bias we hold against those who do not. But just like not being a mom doesn’t make me any less of a woman, renting doesn’t make me any less of an adult.
We rarely look at other aspects of our life through the same lens. Most people don’t say, “Why do you pay for groceries instead of growing your own crops? You’re throwing away money on food!” Most people don’t say, “I couldn’t stand throwing away money on clothes, so I bought a sewing machine.” Most people don’t say, “I was tired of throwing away money on electricity, so I stopped using it.” Money in exchange for a shelter — literally the first need in Maslow’s hierarchy — seems like a very reasonable, maybe the most reasonable, transaction.
Even if that weren’t the case: I’ve done the rent calculators. Every year, we save approximately $25,000 by not owning a house, which includes mortgage interest, property taxes, maintenance costs, and homeowner’s insurance. Sam and I are careful to invest the money we’re saving, steadily socking away money in an index fund. We may not be building equity in a house, but we’re building wealth… and according to those rent calculators, we’re doing so at a faster rate than if we bought. Renting isn’t throwing money away — it’s making us money versus the alternative.
So, that’s the rational argument. Here’s the emotional one.
When the mortgage crisis began, I was in eighth grade. A few years before, my parents had bought a shutters company — a business that’d been booming when everyone was buying and renovating houses and very quickly became a near-dead industry. Our household income disappeared. There was no longer money for dance classes, prom tickets, family vacations, or, when I got older, tuition for the East Coast liberal arts university I’d been dreaming about since my first episode of Gossip Girl.
When I look at a house, I don't think “security.” I think “danger.”
The shutter industry is a lot better these days, and my parents are on more solid ground, but I know they wouldn’t give me money for a house if I was trying to buy one. Many people get financial help from friends and family when buying a home — one in four if they’re between the ages of 25 and 33 — which is another reason “throwing away money on rent” grates on me. Most people can’t afford to do anything but.
Maybe one day I’ll start craving permanency, walls I can paint or knock down. Once Sam and I have kids, I can certainly see the appeal of a permanent zip code.
In the meantime, I’ll be happily paying my rent.
Before you go…
Monday’s most popular link was these perfect pasta bowls from a local shop in Northampton, MA. Several locals told us in the comments they’ve been visiting this special shop — which sells products from 100+ artists and vendors — for years. Time to plan a visit…
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Good for you!! No one - I mean NO ONE - should ever fall victim to the Shoulds in life. Don’t compare, ignore the FOMO (which is bullshit anyway) and make the choices that work for you! My mom used to say that unless someone is paying your bills, their opinions and judgements don’t matter a damn.
I’m a home-owner, but still resonate deeply with this post! My husband and I purchased our current home two years ago- it not needing any major renovations or updates was a huge selling point for us. We have since spent over $20,000 (in barely two years) on what are basically ‘freak accidents’. (This total also would have been at about $55,000 if it weren’t for homeowners insurance *just barely* deciding to cover a water leak.) The idea that owning is the only sensible / responsible / adult way to live is total bs. Comparing it to choosing whether or not to have children is a perfect example- there’s no one ‘right’ path for anyone. 💕