She is practically my neighbor, but I don’t run into her at the block party or chat with her at garage sales. This mysterious woman was, until a few months ago, an elected public official—and she just happens to live down the street from me. Even though I know her by name, I’ve never spoken to her face to face. But she’s visible in other ways. I’ve seen her at ribbon cutting ceremonies, sports tournaments, and public meetings. I’ve read her Op-ed pieces; I’ve scoured countless news stories, tracking her role as a public servant. She fascinates me, this local quasi-celebrity.
I’m preoccupied with the notion that, despite her high profile, the two of us could be friends. Might be friends. Why wouldn’t we? We are about the same age. We are both mothers. We are both wives. I desperately want to believe that she and I are cut from the same cloth. Despite her public persona and highly successful career, she and I are not so different, right?
All I know is that every time I walk my dog past her house, I practically crane my neck and walk on tiptoe hoping to catch a glimpse of her over her privacy hedge. I can’t help myself. I wonder what she might be eating for dinner, whether she lives an ordinary existence with laundry and PTA meetings and trips to the dentist. Just like me.
A few days ago, a huge “For Sale” sign went up in front of my mysterious, quasi-celebrity neighbor’s house. My brain short-circuited. Finally, after years of imagining what her life was like, I knew that all I had to do was click on the online real estate listing and I was finally going to be treated to a virtual tour of this lady’s house. It was almost too much to grasp. I could finally satisfy my curiosity. What a time to be alive!
It’s easy to fool yourself these days, following favorite celebrities on social media or YouTube and convince yourself that we know them, or that we somehow understand them. I am guilty of this. In my optimism, I want to believe that humans are humans, regardless of all the silly social norms that keep us divided. I really do believe this.
Never mind that her house’s footprint is nearly 6 times the size of mine. I scroll through the countless pictures posted by her real estate agent, searching for clues that this woman is not that different from me. Maybe she reads the same books that I do? Does she share my weakness for IKEA furniture?
My heart sinks as I click through the photos: As each photo flashes before my eyes, the illusion that we could be besties slowly dissolves: first, by the softly spiraling staircase suitable for a Disney princess, ascending from the impossibly huge foyer, then the kitchen of my dreams, with all the best appliances and counter space that goes on for miles.
She is not like me.
Oh, look; is that a sauna? And could that be a fully equipped exercise room next to the sauna, or do you have to traipse through the decked-out basement casino first? Just head down the hall and take a left at the wine cellar!
In my mind’s eye, I imagined her sunning herself on the back patio, a Vogue magazine in one hand, an iced tea in another. I wasn’t completely wrong. There, in the gorgeous backyard, is a cabana bed, complete with gauzy curtains. It’s positioned on the Bluestone patio, near the outdoor kitchen, fully outfitted bar, and pizza oven. It overlooks the tennis court.
I send the real estate listing to my friend. I need someone to corroborate what I’m seeing. My friend responds with the appropriate amount of disbelief, then proceeds to point out details I didn’t notice, like the perfectly placed designer Hermés bag placed in the walk-in closet. Distinctive blue Tiffany boxes are neatly stacked. Subtle cues, surely, left for me: She and I are not the same. She is not like me.
Over the next few days, I revisit the photos of the house, and each time, it’s a Where’s Waldo? situation. The more I look, the more I see. One of the six bathrooms has a urinal in it, with a TV screen above it at eye-level. The home office, with its imposing desk, is reminiscent of the Oval Office. Ten-foot ceilings boast exquisite crown molding and coffered ceilings. The garage floors are heated.
The next time I walk past that house, I don’t think I’ll be walking on tiptoe to peek over the hedge anymore. The mystery is gone; I’ve seen the house and imagined the life lived inside it. The chasm between that lavish and luxurious life and mine could nearly swallow me whole. We are all merely human. We are all cut from basically the same cloth. But that is someone else’s house. That is not for me.
