Despite growing up in the suburbs in the 1970s, in a home my parents struggled to afford, I never aspired to the “American Dream” of home ownership. I’m proud to be a city guy, a renter. Add to that the unpredictability of working as a writer—freelancing some shallow years, plunging into the corporate pool in others—and somewhere along the way, I became a “renter for life.”

Yes, I never have to shovel snow, rake leaves or make home repairs (I couldn’t even tell you where to find a Home Depot). But, no, I don’t have anywhere to park or any equity as a hedge against my massive scratch-off lottery-ticket habit.

I’ve always thought renting is a better fit for my lifestyle and profession. It wasn’t necessarily that I was going to move out on a whim (clearly, I don’t have much residential wanderlust), but you never know when you’re gonna get tracked down by an ex-girlfriend, a creditor or, worse, an ex-girlfriend to whom you owe money.

In choosing my path, there have been trade-offs. Sometimes I wish my live-in girlfriend and I could have more cats (hmm…how many can you have before turning into creepy cat people?), a whirlpool tub or a garden.

On the other hand, if there’s a repair, I can make a call and then not worry about it. Another bonus: We can live on the park, instead of scrounging to buy a starter house in some frontier neighborhood where we’d need Kevlar vests to walk to the grocery store. And I don’t have to pay for things like general upkeep, increases in loan rates or through-the-roof property taxes (not to mention roof repairs, had anything actually gone through my roof). Plus, I think we can all agree—renters and owners alike—that any time not spent painting is time well spent.

But those pros and cons pale compared to the biggest consideration—monthly payments. My first place in this building was a huge bargain: just $400 per month to live right on Lincoln Park. It’s considerably more now, but I’m not sure I could have afforded mortgage payments each month or, heck, been approved for a loan even in my best earning years. (“Mr. Sweeney, I see you made $125,000 last year, but only $438.57 the year before. Tell me a little more about that.”)

However, if another 18 years pass and I’m still here at age 63, I’ll have “thrown away” a mind-blowing sum on rent and only made my landlord richer. But at least at my advanced age and addled state, I won’t have to lift a finger to replace a busted toilet or broken fuse. That’ll be my wealthy landlord’s job.