It was a couple hours since George had gotten down on one knee and asked me to marry him. After wandering DC looking for some food, we had finally taken the Metro to Chinatown and, completely famished, had gotten a table at the first restaurant we saw.
As we waited for our food, we happily discussed our future life together.
But then George said, “At some point we should discuss where we’re going to live after we get married.”
I stared blankly at him.
“George, you own a house,” I finally managed to get out.
“Yes,” he said. “But I don’t want you to feel that you have to live there if you don’t want to. We can start in a new house if you’d like. We can talk about it.”
There were two facts I knew about George long before I met him: 1) he is an amazing swing dancer,
and 2) he won a house. Yes, you read that right. He won a house. He bought a $10 raffle ticket one day at the grocery store – a raffle that benefited a charity in support of the homeless – and won a house more than a decade ago. Sure he had to pay taxes on it and all that. But he still won a house.
The idea that we would live anywhere else had never crossed my mind.
“Ok, let’s just have this discussion now,” I replied. “This is an easy discussion. You own a house. You have no mortgage. Are you crazy? We’re living there.”
And so the decision was made.
And along with that decision, in an attempt to make sure I will feel perfectly at home, George gave me free rein to do whatever I want with the house.
On November 10th, George’s house will become my home, too.
I won’t be able to say I won it the way George can.
But I won the owner of the house, which, in my opinion, is even better.