I was just about to give up on finding a better place to live. There is nothing wrong with my current abode of 17 years. It's a little small, but it's paid off and very cheap to maintain. Sure, I'd like a guest room sometimes. Other times, I'm glad I don't have one. The places I looked at last weekend with my handsome realtor, Glen, were either too small (and expensive), too much "fixer upper," or were snatched up by someone else before I had a chance to even think about it. In some cases it was all of the above.
I was exhausted after one day of looking but as I prepared to email Glen to forget it, I noticed he sent me a couple more listings.
Cut to Monday: I found myself digging through files for financial statements, signing endless forms, asking for time off to attend a closing next month, and talking on the phone multiple times with Glen and Michelle, my mortgage lender lady.
Caught in a whirlwind of paperwork and a frenzy of describing the new (to me) residence to friends, I had an attack of "ohmygodwhathaveIdone."
I've spent the past few days talking myself out of a continuous anxiety attack. Fact is, I have a little money to invest, and this is a good investment in a nice neighborhood. I'll enjoy the extra space and hardwood floors, and did I mention the garage?
So what if it's not the penthouse portrayed in the opening of Green Acres. I wouldn't look good in Lisa Douglas's flowing gowns anyway.
