Jul 21, 2017 3 min read

There is no buyer’s remorse trigger mightier than signing a contract to buy a house. Actually, buying a mega jet or an island might be worse, or maybe a quickie marriage. But the worst most of us ever feel is that morning after putting hand money down on a house.

During this last phase of downsizing, we’ve been looking for a smaller place in the same neck of the woods. Our price point must be some kind of real estate sweet spot, because the very day houses came onto the market they would be snapped up. For several weeks, we walked through every house in our size and price range in an eight-mile radius; no sooner would we stand in a kitchen and say, “This might work” than the real estate agent would look up from her phone and say, “It’s under contract.”

It was all so frustrating we gave up, avoiding the Zillow listings and avoiding craning our necks as we drove through neighborhoods. Those “For Sale” signs were just teasing us.

And then last week, as we got to the part where we must paint the inside of this house, we decided all of that would be easier without furniture – not to mention people – lurking, so we started shopping again.

And found something we liked. It checked off the main boxes: ranch, some land, close to the interstate but not too close, updated kitchen and bathrooms, lots of light. We made an offer, they countered and we said yes.

It happened too quickly for the anxiety to happen midstream, but I knew it would come. When the call came they’d accepted the offer, I had that sweet moment of joy. And then the second-guessing started.

It’s part of human nature, this reluctance to trust our own decisions. Like all of us, I’ve been known to change my mind. I spend as much time returning unworn clothing to stores as I do buying them in the first place. No price tag is ever removed from a garment until the day I place it on my body and am headed out the door to actually wear it somewhere. There’s something about a price tag hanging from the underarm of a dress that invites me to question whether I really like it. What else could I do with that money? Half the time, back it goes.

But you can’t send a house back. That night, after our offer had been accepted, I lay in bed, turning that house over and over, looking at every possible crack in the veneer of near perfection. The bedrooms are small. What about the construction in the field behind us? With all those woods come deer and ticks. Where will we put the porch swing? And why didn’t the house sell? There must be something wrong with it.

I’ve done this with every house I’ve bought, as well as with every car, every vacation, every haircut, every handbag and winter coat. I suffer from dining-mate envy most times I go to a restaurant. I always want what the other person is having. I had buyer’s remorse 20 years ago when we bought this house. Too big, I said. Too much yard to mow. We’ll be buried by the heating bills.

All that passed, of course. Turns out I was wrong to worry. I’ll be sorry to leave. It’s time to move on now – without turning back.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.