Apr 6, 2017 4 min read

Downsizing is a deceitful word. You say it – and make plans based on it – thinking that its very meaning suggests an easy transition.

Sure, it does mean a transition from large to small, or from complex to simple. That’s what the farmer and I have been planning to do. But in practice, downsizing is a big, complicated, vexing process that proves just how wrong the word is.

We are in the last stages of renovating our big, old Victorian home. The kids slept in all of its six bedrooms, moving around as they grew and their needs changed. They played in the huge backyard, and watched countless episodes of “SpongeBob” in the family room while I cooked meals a few feet away. We filled the basement with two decades of stuff too full of memories to toss away. The house has been as good a home as any family could ever need.

But it’s too big for our lives now. And so we’ve begun to look for a smaller place, a search that has challenged our notions of what it means to live smaller and more simply. The search also has forced me to confront the truth of how spoiled I’ve become.

We set out on our house hunt with three criteria: price, zip code and number of bathrooms. Quickly we learned that it’s possible to find two of those things in one house, but never three.

We want a house in our present vicinity with three bedrooms and at least one and a half baths. Two full and a half (as we have now) would be ideal, but I’m willing to compromise on that in order to get a bit more yard.

For two weekends, we went chasing around town with the real estate agent, touring the houses that, according to the listings, hit our three marks. House after house, I would walk through the front door, admire the hardwood floors and the bright kitchens, and then start looking for the powder room. I’d open doors to find pantries and closets but no half bath.

“In the basement,” the agent would say, and sure enough, the “half bath” in the listing was a Pittsburgh toilet, that bit of plumbing apparently unique to houses around here. I’m sure the Pittsburgh toilet comes in handy, but to me, a half bath is a little room with a toilet and sink and a door, preferably on the first floor.

In our search, we found houses with the right bathrooms but no yards. Or houses perched on hillsides so steep I fear I’d drive up Dec. 1 and not descend until April 1. There was a house with two full baths but nowhere to park. There was one house so spectacular on the inside that I almost overlooked the decaying houses that surrounded it.

After emerging from the 11th or 12th “no” house, the agent and I stood on the sidewalk, sharing our frustrations.

“I am spoiled,” I said. “Most people don’t get everything they want in a house.”

Most working people buy houses that have some of the things they want, most of the things they need, and a few major things they learn to overlook. Each of the houses we toured would become home to a family whose adults and children will fill it up.

And that’s the most remarkable part of this search. In almost every case, the houses we toured were sold that same day. The homes we rejected were just right for someone else. That says more about me than it does about the houses.

This has been frustrating, but I’ve learned something. It turns out that in order for it to work, downsizing a home may require downsizing expectations.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.