My parents are becoming increasingly wrong
While swimming through the year of molasses, I flirted with the idea of buying a house. An idea fueled mostly by my parents, it illustrated our different housing paradigms.
When my parents were my age, they bought their first house with a yearly salary that was about 25% of their mortgage and they only saw wages increase from there. A mortgage for a starter house has nearly tripled since then but, you guessed it, salaries haven’t. My salary is about 14% of even the smallest mortgage (don’t forget I’m talking New Jersey here). This gap of lending has almost doubled.
Not only did I do my research and find owning a house financially impossible, the idea is horrifying. A house is like a pair of cement shoes, permanently solidifying you into the soil where it resides. I don’t desire stability in the same way my parents did at my age.
I want different things. They wanted houses, shit-filled diapers, a minivan and a dog. I want to rock the socks off my career before I drop anchor and pollute the world with my insipid spawn. Regardless, I love my parents and I’m glad they settled young, otherwise I may not of had the chance to talk about this stuff with them.
