Sadly, I do that. I live in my dreams, and my dream homes. Yes, plural.
I don’t know where I get this from but for the longest time, I’ve been fascinated by thinking up the details of my home. It almost makes me wonder where the house lust comes from. It’s not like I’ve ever been homeless. In fact, if I weren’t so picky and prickly, I know I’ll never have to worry about having a roof over my head.
I love house porn; and I don’t mean the homemade sex video variety. For a female, it seems odd that I’ve only bought magazines covering basically two topics: running/fitness and design—graphic, interior, and architectural. I’m sure I’ve picked up a fashion or beauty magazine a few times but those occasions pale in comparison to my usual fare.
I was saddened by the demise of Metropolitan Home but I console myself with Dwell, House Beautiful, and Elle Decor. For some weird reason, I remember growing up with stacks and stacks of Architectural Digest, no one in my family is an architect or an interior designer and I cannot think of who else was interested. My mom did have 80’s Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar magazines, even Sear’s catalogs and McCall’s patterns but those were related to her business.
To this day, that’s one of my favorite ways to pass the time. I look at property listings, check out images, and I dream up my homes—I’ve had all this time to think about it so it’s understandable that I have more than one. I think of fixtures, furniture, the actual structure and so on. I have a number of pretty clear and detailed pictures of them in my head that I can basically enter one of my imaginary homes and plop down into a comfy chair.
For now any one of my dream homes is out of my reach. But, since dreaming is free, I shall keep at it.