My waiting game has begun again. From the moment I crawled out of bed this morning, until 8 this evening, I focused on writing an offer on the house we toured over the weekend. I put it together the best I could, but for some inexplicable reason, I just don't have a solid feeling about this one. It could go any number of ways. Could be accepted as is. Could be countered. Could be rejected outright. If countered, my clients may or may not be willing to come up in price. It's not often I can't read the tea leaves, but tonight, I honestly have no idea where it will go from here. After spending the bulk of twelve hours filling out contract forms, pulling comps, and proofreading 18 pages of legalese that represents innumerable pitfalls and traps if I miss a checkbox along the way, I am numb. I adulted for the entire day, and once I submitted my work, I felt a sense of euphoria similar to that following an opiod pain pill (which I absolutely did not consume today). I think I was just relieved and coming down off the adrenaline and cortosol. Now I'm not good for much. Conveniently, it's late at night as I type, and I'm allowed to drift off into dreams of the closing table.
I didn't leave the house until after dark, because I was understandably occupied. One of our late night errands was to stop by a friend's house and try to trouble shoot the problems she's having with her clothes washer. Or more specifically, Mr X did the trouble shooting, and I stood around gossiping, and being fascinated by the scary basement in her hundred year old home. Hundreds of people have passed through this home, located very near our downtown. I don't know whether it was a flop house, or a drug den, or the Front Range version of a stop on the Underground Railroad. Whatever caused it, hundreds, maybe thousands, of handwritten names cover the walls, joists, doors, and any other surface big enough to write on. There are some doodles as well, little sketches of faces or inanimate objects. There are decades-old newspaper clippings pasted in some spots. And in a super-creepy back room, there's goofy wallpaper. The door to that creepy room--on the inside of the door--reads the message, "You are free to come and go as you wish," or something nearly identical to that, plus a smiley-face. I commented on it to our friend, the homeowner, and she said it creeps her out as much as it does me. All I could think was, who was in that room with the door shut, and why was it necessary to remind them that they were not prisoners in that room? There is almost too much history in that small space to absorb in one visit. I'm still processing it.
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