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COVID-19 is a direct attack on the thing that made my life not just exceptional but livable.
"There’s something deranged about watching the University of Georgia playing the University of Massachusetts at Amherst in football." An Atlantan UMass alum heads to Athens to watch the Minutemen get completely destroyed by the Bulldogs.
When I moved to my 1,800-square-foot loft in Atlanta two years ago, my furniture looked better suited to a dollhouse. I needed to fill this big white box with stuff. Every day, returning to my bare home felt excruciatingly lonely. Finally, I set up an appointment with an interior designer through an online service called Homepolish.
When I lived in this house alone, every gurgle of the pipes, every sag in the floorboards had signaled a potential disaster. And every disaster meant a bill. Now here I was, standing in the kitchen with the man I’d married less than a month before. For the first time in my life, someone wanted to share the burden of homeownership. But I was having trouble letting him.
A decade ago my now ex-husband and I purchased a nearly 100-year-old wood-framed house in Inman Park. The house had high ceilings, five fireplaces, and wavy glass windows through which the midafternoon sun would cast rectangular sheets of light onto the hardwood floors. Behind the gracious facade, we were struggling.