I’ve dreamed of building myself a tiny house for three years.
I’ve dreamed of it ever since stumbling upon an article about a woman somewhere in our great Pacific Northwest who built herself a teeny tiny cabin in the woods and lived a relatively sustainable and nearly rent-free existence. (I wish I could remember the name of the woman or the city she lived in. Sadly, I’ve never found it again.)
I tucked the idea away, because I was pretty sure it was NEVER going to happen.
If you know me—or you’ve read enough of my blog—you might think I have no problem standing out and being a bit odd. I mean, I’ve shaved my head three times, for goodness sake.
But here’s the thing…
Even though I’ve never even gotten close to being average, I always assumed that someday I’d arrive. Someday I’d be mild-mannered. Someday I’d have a career. Someday I’d want to settle down. Someday I’d want to blend in. (I know, what a colossal joke. What was I thinking.)
So I’ve held off on a few of my REALLY BIG DREAMS, because I just figured they’d sort of go away and I’d have some, you know, normal dreams. Like about marriage and kids and crap like that. (It’s not crap, I’m just making a point about how those aren’t my dreams right now. I still like your kids.)
But I’m not a someday kind of girl. So I quit. I quit trying so hard to look, act, sound, or dream quietly. As if any part of me is ever really quiet. I mean, what was I thinking?
This year has been a year for living every minute. I gave myself a haircut that isn’t “normal.” I bought myself some killer red jeans. And this March I started drawing up the plans for my very own house. My very own tiny house.