Tiny House, Big Mistake
Alright, I have to make one thing clear in case anyone ever reads this: I love my husband. I do.
I trusted him when he sprung this whole thing on me, didn’t I? I had my doubts, but he made a good case and he caught me in one of my “my life has no sense of adventure” moods. That’s how we got into this mess. And this is a mess.
This is a tiny, huge, mess.
After the initial anxiety of what it would be like to move out of our not-even-that-big house into a capital-T Tiny house, I was relieved when the transition didn’t seem to be that bad. I convinced myself it was cute and quaint, and I really believed it for a little while. It felt like a cozy getaway, which was nice… for about two weeks. Did I mention that I love my husband?
The kitchen especially makes me feel like I’m living in a storybook, and not in a cute way like Enchanted. Our mini appliances aren’t charming, they’re just small.
I am a human adult who has to put my egg carton on an angle or else the tiny fridge won’t close. Certainly this is enough to drive anyone mad. Our oven situation is just two little burners and a toaster. Counterspace is scarce, so the only fruit bowl it can fit holds 3 bananas and a lemon. But somehow the kitchen isn’t the worst room in the house. Also, my husband is a great man and a wonderful father. And I do love him. I do.
The novelty of climbing a ladder to bed as an adult wears off quite fast. It was hard enough to throw away half my stuff to move into this hobbit hole; now I have to do a little obstacle course to get to my bed? And that’s all it is, by the way: a bed. Not a bedroom. It is a mattress on a shelf. But, at least I get to spend my nights next to the man I love. My husband. I love him.
It goes without saying that you can’t sit up in this “loft bedroom”, and yet that hasn’t stopped me from accidentally smacking my head on the ceiling countless times. (Should I see a neurologist?) I now have no choice but to slither in and out of bed like a clumsy snake. A clumsy snake who is sad about not being able to read in bed but is also pretty pissed that this is her life now. Her life that her husband–who I love–chose. But I do love that man. Truly. Why are you looking at me like that?
The skylight (that was supposed to provide some much-needed natural light) is the only thing that works as it was designed. It is mere inches from our faces up there and for a while, I was jolted awake every morning by searing sunlight. Eventually, I got a sleep mask to solve that problem, but I haven’t cracked how to deal with the rain.
Rain sounds like rocks pouring in a steady stream from the sky––not the least bit relaxing. It was terrifying the first few times, but now I am just exhausted and at my wits’ end. But my husband loves the rain…and as I said…I… love him.
I truly don’t know how I let my husband convince me that a table that folds down from the wall was equal to a dining room, or that a storage bench with a cushioned lid could replace a couch. He sleeps soundly because he thinks the move was “good for the environment”. I go to sleep praying for clear skies. And knowing that I love my husband. Because I do love him. I really do.
Samantha Blyn is a college student, recipe developer, and frequently described as an “old soul.” When she’s not trying to make her coworkers at the bakery laugh, she’s in the kitchen at home bouncing ideas off her dog, Bentley. Check her out at @samanthablyn_cooks on Instagram.
