This was 1995, back when job titles sounded a lot more impressive than paychecks.
Laura and I had been together for four years, each still living in our own apartments with our own roommates, doing the long, slow march toward what felt like adulthood. About halfway through year four, I proposed, and suddenly all the romantic stuff came with spreadsheets.
Wedding date.
Utilities.
Insurance.
Rent.
Whose couch survives the merge.
The glamorous side of true love.
We had a year before the wedding, which meant it was decision time: find an apartment together or go all in and buy a house.
Naturally, we chose the option that sounded wildly irresponsible and deeply optimistic.
A house.
Laura was working as an accountant and office manager at a car dealership. I was an associate creative director and junior partner at an ad agency, which was a fancy way of saying I worked 60–70 hours a week for the salary equivalent of a shrug.
Titles are funny like that. They sound expensive.
Still, between the two of us, we figured we were finally ready to stop paying rent and start building something that felt like ours.
So we hired a real estate agent and spent weekends touring every open house in Omaha that looked even remotely possible.
Older homes had charm.
Older homes also had basements clearly designed for hobbits.
At nearly every showing, I’d get halfway down the stairs and have to fold myself into shapes normally reserved for luggage. Once downstairs, standing upright wasn’t even an option.
So after enough accidental neck exercises, we made the call: new construction.
Starter home. Fresh walls. Bigger rooms. Full-height basement ceilings.
Most importantly, I actually fit.
The day we picked the house, everything suddenly felt real. The paperwork said we qualified for all the first-time homebuyer perks—great loan programs, lower rates, every magical phrase young couples want to hear.
It was perfect.
Almost.
Even with all the incentives, we were still about $10,000 short on the down payment.
Ten thousand dollars might as well have been ten million back then.
But we were in love, determined, and already mentally arranging furniture in rooms that didn’t exist yet.
So I looked at the one thing I owned that could bridge the gap.
My Honda Prelude.
Back then, that car was freedom. Independence. Late-night drives. Youth with a sunroof.
I put it on the market.
When it sold, the down payment problem disappeared.
So did my transportation.
After closing, I had less than two grand left, which meant I traded the Prelude for the kind of temporary car that rattled like it had unresolved emotional issues.
A true rolling piece of optimism.
But every time I pulled into the driveway of that brand-new starter home, it felt worth it.
This month, Laura and I celebrate 30 years of marriage.
So yeah…
I’d say the Prelude turned out to be a pretty good investment.
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
