Live, Laugh, Love
I see this phrase in houses that are staged to sell, and I don’t care for it. I guess the reminder is nice because it would be good to do more of all three. But I don’t think anyone’s living, laughing, or loving in those nearly vacant houses.
But I had to embrace staging recently when I listed my house for sale. I realized that the expectation of buyers is that a place look perfect and, to me, unlived in.
I get it; no one wants to see my Costco list or the cat’s litter box. And home staging totally works (see below).
I visited another home for sale that had pictures displayed of people who were not at all attractive (IMHO), and I thought, “yeesh. No.”
These personal things leave something for others to judge, and you want to avoid that when selling a home. But Live, Laugh, Love is on another level.
And all of this got me thinking about expectations. Is this what our culture has become, one that expects the fantasy instead of the reality? What’s wrong with character? Imperfections? And, is a “perfect” house even comfortable or luxurious after all?
I used to drive a Cadillac. My husband hated it. He said there was too much play in the steering wheel and that things never worked right. I used to get offended, telling him that my car was broken in like an old pair of jeans. The leather seats were wrinkled just right. Cupped my butt comfortably. Plus, you barely felt it when you drove over a giant pothole because the suspension was forgiving instead of precise.
Dream cars; not my actual car
To me, that’s luxury. Floating above it all. Not in a distant, snobby way. But in a way that says, “I’m not participating in your precision.”
So back to the staging, I did it for the sale. Told myself it was marketing. I couldn’t bring myself to write “Live, Laugh, Love” on my chalk wall, but I did manage a “Home Sweet Home” quote from Mötley Crüe.
Click to listen to this classic rock ballad: Home Sweet Home
However, in life I’m not doing it. I’m not worrying about stretch marks from birthing two humans, or bruises on my legs because I’m super clumsy, or the many scars I have because my body is lived in, laughed at, and loved.
I’m looking for the beauty and luxury in the actual stuff.