a placeless world

American dream finally realized, I swept my wife off her feet and carried her over the threshold of our new home.

I set her down on the kitchen counter, plucked a bottle of wine from the fridge and poured two glasses. We toasted our future.

It was one of the best moments of my life. Also one of the most frightening.

I'm no stranger to debt. My sister used to front me money for the ice cream man — at 10 percent interest. I bought my first car — a 1969 Ford Mustang — from a friend for $1600 plus the promise of $200 more a month until it was paid in full.

I've done the tango with a few high-rate credit cards. Jitterbugged with Visa and Mastercard. And I'll be waltzing with student debt — one-two-three one-two-three — until my legs fall off.

But not like this. Nothing like this.

This week I signed my name — over and over and over and over — on a book of legal documents fiscally obligating me throughout the next seven presidential elections. In doing so, I assumed possession of a home built during the Roosevelt administration — Teddy Roosevelt, that is.

I'm not complaining. The house is beautiful — a big brick bungalow with arching doorways and three — count'em three — chandeliers. The kitchen's magnificent. The front porch is big enough to play a game of football on. And the basement... well... let's just say my gin mill's going to have a real spacious home.

A claw foot tub. A cute little backyard. Four bedrooms.

Yes, four bedrooms. Yes, that's one for me, one for my wife and one for each of our two cats. You try finding a small home in Utah.

So we got a big one. A big, beautiful one. Because if you're going to go broke, you might as well do it in style.

In reality, we're not going broke — even though it might feel that way for a while. We're building wealth — the financial gurus tell us — by putting our money into equity.

Equity and interest, that is. And that's part of what makes this all so scary. The interest is there to remind me that I get very little room to screw up now.

Can't go out and spend my paycheck on the most recent object of my fancy. Can't go backpacking through Europe for months at a time on a few hundred dollars of savings. Can't storm out of my office when my editor and I have creative differences.

That's the trade-off. And it's one I've made happily. Excitedly.

But nervously.

After toasting our future, we toasted each other. And then I refilled my glass.

I may be doing that frequently over the next few months.