The house in question is the one I've been living in for the past two years. This has been my plan for quite some time, and now it's happening.
I want to buy a house. I want to buy this house. I want to own this house.
And yet, somehow it still feels like buying a house — not a condo or an apartment, but an actual freestanding house with a yard and a garage and everything — is the ultimate expression of having given up hope of finding a man.
A woman who owns her own house may as well wear a flashing sign that reads: I don't need a man.
Men want to be needed.
Maybe it's not that way in your world. It is in mine. Men are providers; women are nurturers. You're allowed to break that rule, but breaking it and finding somebody who can live with it... That's tough.
Or so it seems to me.