Inanimate Attachment

This weekend, my husband Shawn sold his sailboat. His tenure as a boat owner was brief. He bought the sailboat in December. It was a fixer upper. He worked on it every weekend for several months - in the cold - and set sail every weekend he could during the summer.

He decided that he had to sell the boat when he got a new military assignment, requiring us to relocate in the Spring. He listed it in Craig's List, and a potential buyer came forward the very next day. Shawn showed the boat, and the buyer was no longer potential - he gave Shawn the asking price, and the deal was done. The next day, Shawn took the guy and his wife out for a sail so Shawn could "show them the ropes." I went too, but I mostly served as babysitter for the couple's 20 month old little boy (not an especially fun time for me). In the truck on the way home from the marina, Shawn was really upset. He felt like he had spent all of that time on the beautiful boat and sold it to someone who didn't really know what he was doing and couldn't appreciate it. He was so sad.

And I understood how he felt. Even though my love of sailboats is far far less than his (if there even is a love there), the thought of giving up something that was once ours (and Shawn's pride and joy) was incredibly sad. I had a tough time sleeping too.

It is funny how we can get attached not just to people and places - but to things - to inanimate objects. A week after I got my fancy new car, I was still a little bummed about having to trade in my old one - even though I had made a huge upgrade. Saying goodbye to the first new car I had ever bought was much harder than I'd imagined. I'm over it now, but I still remember that feeling.