A year ago, my wife and I decided to sell the farmhouse we’ve lived in for twenty-five years. While we were excited about moving into the next chapter of our life, the grown kids were less enthusiastic: our daughter’s next blog was entitled, Don’t Buy This House.
Nevertheless, we followed all the commonsense guidelines for home-sales:
- We decluttered our closets, removed beds and furniture to make the house more spacious, and rented room at a storage facility.
- We removed antique wallpaper and painted the walls with neutral colors.
- And we updated older appliances and countertops, and revitalized the landscaping.
No bites. Not a nibble. Undaunted, we hired a stager who suggested we suck all personal intimacy from our home. Family photos were banished and personal artwork was expelled. Including the life-size, cowboy-hat-wearing skeleton in my office (in my office, mind you, not my closet).
Next our stager replaced every stick of sitting furniture with pure white pieces: sofas, easy chairs, and love seats. Which we immediately covered with sheets. Our stager styled it Farmhouse Chic. Our kids dubbed it, Farmhouse Sheet.
After hundreds of hours of expectant preparation for the dozens of hopeful showings: Nothing.
Last week my wife and I realized we spent our last twelve months living in limbo, neither here nor there. We were like swimmers treading water, going nowhere.
We’ve been living a staged life.