Was it worth it?

Earlier today I took a walk through my neighborhood, and I thought about the houses I passed. My apartment building is situated among some very nice homes. They’re old (by West Coast standards) and well-kept. 

I was thinking about whether I wanted one of those houses. As an American, I’m supposed to want a nice house in order to live the American dream. And as a young, employed American, I’m supposed to be seriously thinking about buying one. 

The houses I passed on my walk are truly lovely. They’re tasteful, elegant, diverse in character, and nicely located. They’re places I’m sure I would be pleased to come home to every day. They seem to be filled with classy furniture and fine appliances.

I doubt any of the houses I passed today would sell for less than $300,000, and some of them would go for much more. Throw in all the stuff inside, and you’ve probably got an additional $50,000. Numbers like this are basically unfathomable for me. Even with my pretty decent salary and pretty simple lifestyle, it would take me over 16 years of aggressive penny-pinching to put together that kind of money. And that doesn’t even take into account maintenance costs or interest.

 When I started thinking about the financial side of it, the nice homes seemed much less appealing. I thought about the people inside the homes. 

I’d like to go door to door and ask the homeowners one question: was it worth the price? Most of the people living in those houses probably had to do one of two things to afford them: go into severe debt or slave away at a high-paying job they didn’t like. Many of them probably did both. There might be a guy here or there who managed to become wealthy doing work he loved, and hats off to him. But I’m sure he’s the exception rather than the rule.

So was it worth it? Was everything you put toward the house (or are still putting toward it) money well spent? Was there nothing you would have rather done with that money—or with the time spent making it?

Some would say no to the last question—a house is what they wanted and they’re happy they spent the money on one. But I’ll bet plenty of others—if you really probed into their honest feelings—would admit serious regrets in making such a commitment. Some might wish they’d just saved like crazy and taken time to go traveling. Some might wish they’d have been willing to live in a crappier place so they could have pursued their dream of playing music. Some might wish they’d have just rented a small place and had more time to spend with their kids.

If I were to scrounge together the cash for a down payment on a nice home and move into one in, say, a year, I’m sure it would at first be utterly delightful. No upstairs neighbors, my own washer and dryer, a yard, a place to call my own. Coming home after work would make my day. But it would only be a matter of time before the initial blush wore off and I started thinking over what I had to spend my days doing to afford the place. I would realize that buying a house had done nothing to move me forward in figuring out the life I want. 

Even if my salary were to double—or triple—or quadruple—I still wouldn’t want to buy a house. A five-figure monthly paycheck wouldn’t have me thinking about home ownership. It would have me thinking about all the plane tickets I could buy when I quit in six months. 

I wouldn’t buy a house because it’s not what I truly value. I’m sure plenty of homeowners don’t truly value them, either. They buy them to keep up with the Joneses, or to please a partner, or because they think it’s the best thing to give their kids. And when they realize this, they find themselves ensconced in self-made gilded cages.