With a bit of hard work, anything is possible!
You may have seen them in the paper: smiling young couples, standing proudly before sold stickers on real estate signs, shining with glory and success.
Behold! The millennial homeowner.
Yes it is rare, but so too is the kind of work ethic needed to make it in these trying times. Sacrifice; stoicism; single minded determination: traits familiar to previous generations now lost in a slew of hypermediation and delicious brunches, these qualities can still be found in select few.
But who are these hard-nosed unicorns exactly? Are they human? Or are they dancers? Well, dear reader, I cannot say. What we do know though is that they walk among us and to prove it here’s an excerpt straight from the diary of a millennial homeowner.
Get up at the crack of dawn ready to start my paper route which both supplements my two other jobs and eliminates the need for a pricey gym membership.
As I pedal my bike down our driveway, I pass my lovely wife Mitzi returning home from another hard slog in the ol’ mine. I wave hello but she can barely see through the soot and I chuckle to myself as her silhouette staggers tiredly towards the house.
After an unusually quick commute (4 hours and 45 minutes) to the central city, I get straight to work stopping only to eat my homemade lunch (plain white bread cut into triangles and a small piece of cheese).
Tittering frivolously, my colleagues ask if I would like to join them for an extravagant trip to the local cafe. I politely decline, barely disguising my pity for these doomed fools.
Wednesdays are particularly busy, and not only must I go to the office but I have the one of three weekly all-night call centre shifts selling e-cigarettes to pensioners.
Tonight proves to be a rough one, and I am screamed at a total of seven times by disgruntled seniors less than pleased about my night time soliciting.
I come through the front door in the early morning and find Mitzi passed out on the couch waiting for my return and for a moment I feel overwhelmed with exhaustion. But, looking at Mitzi’s sleeping, coal-smeared face, I remind myself that it's all worth it. After all, I’d rather be paying our mortgage than someone else’s!
I wake up with a pounding headache, runny nose and a sore throat and after a particularly harrowing paper delivery reluctantly call in sick. Mitzi is down the mine for the day, but our flatmate Dylan is home and he kindly spends the afternoon with me explaining his many allergies.
They seem to have worsened, says Dylan, since moving in with us and he suspects it is due to the pervasive mould that made the house affordable enough for us to buy it.
Seeing the look on my face, Dylan laughs and reassures me that he is not going anywhere. He can barely afford his nasal spray let alone the bond and letting fee for another flat! Relief washes over me and we embrace.
Friday night dinner with Mitzi’s parents, with whom we were fortunate enough to live for eight years while saving for a deposit.
After years of declining invites out, these dinners are a welcome social event in our calendar and a fun reunion with what I consider to be my second family. I still fondly remember Mitzi’s father Graham sitting on the edge of our bed each night telling us hilarious stories about his fluctuating blood pressure until we drifted off to sleep.
Saturday is the only day each week that Mitzi and I have together and we like to use it to enjoy one another’s company and to work on our home together.
Today we are finally commencing with our DIY insulation project, which will hopefully eliminate the need for the large down puffer jackets we currently sleep in year round.
It’s exhausting work and by the end of the day we are knackered. Popping open the Lindauer we’ve been saving and sitting down to a delicious luncheon meat stew, we toast to our good fortune and hard work.
With the wife out Ubering and an afternoon to myself, I decide to run a few errands in the city feeling free and breezy.
As I walk down the street however, a familiar face catches my eye. I turn and come face to face with Mitzi, seated alone at a table on the pavement. My eyes widen, welling with tears and as her face flashes with dawning recognition a piece of smashed avocado smeared toast falls from her hand.
I hasten away, even as she knocks over her soy latte in her attempt to pursue.
That night as we settle into bed, she begs for my forgiveness and I tell her everything is alright. Yet, as our puffer jackets crinkle together and I drift off to sleep, the green, earthy, long forgotten smell of avocado wafts into my nostrils.
I know that things will never be the same again.