My parents are in the process of selling their house, and I have to say that I’m really done with hearing about it every five seconds. Yes, dad, I understand the deal with rate adjustments (you’ve only told me about fifty times). Mum, I know that curbside appeal is important, but I’m not going with you to the nursery again – not after last time.
The most annoying part is that they’re upsizing – quite dramatically, mind you. Who knew they had that few extra million conveniently tucked away, just in case they needed to purchase a secluded bush mini-mansion? Meanwhile, here’s me struggling to scrape together a convincing down payment on a two-bedder in the ‘burbs. Thanks a lot, you two!
Granted, I shouldn’t expect financial assistance from them – I understand that I’m not entitled to it by any means. The full extent of their wealth still comes as a bit of a shock, though. And if I hear one more word about the ins and outs of preparing a vendors statement… honestly. They could have at least explained to me their independence-focused approach to parenting when I was younger, so that I could be prepared for having fantastically wealthy parents who refuse to help me get a home loan.
Maybe they’re trying to encourage me to get it together by waggling their upgrade in my face. It’s not just them; my colleague, Wilson, is doing the same thing. I don’t know how he manages it, given that we both have the same lecturing job. Maybe he’s getting paid more than I am. Or maybe he’s in cahoots with my folks. That’d be right.
“Hamish,” he says. “Let me give you my conveyancer recommendations. Melbourne properties are going like hotcakes at the moment. Blah blah blah. Just get your investment portfolio in order and you’ll be happy forever. I’m Wilson and I love life so much because I have rich AND financially helpful parents.”
That’s why I’ve been spending so much time working on papers lately. It’s not that I’m trying to unlock the meaning of life; I’m just trying to escape from this idiocy.