On Foot

Inspirational song: Walking on the Moon (The Police)

Gravity is a cruel monster that preys on the old and infirm. It’s a bear for middle aged folks carrying too much weight for their flat feet, too. By the time I got home at 5-something this afternoon, I could barely limp into the bedroom, to collapse for a nap. I woke two or three times from there, but it took a solid two hours for my feet to stop tingling in a bad way long enough to get up again. I dragged myself up to feed all the animals, and have spent the remainder of the night in a lukewarm hot tub. I had to get out once to chase Murray and Harvey back inside, but I got right back in. I tried to tell myself to go inside to blog, but instead I’m tapping it out on my iPad while my little white raisin toes drift back and forth weightlessly. Works for me.

A couple days ago, my managing broker asked me to hold an open house down in Denver for him. It was way, way out of my usual territory. I know the lay of the land in the northern counties best, particularly Boulder, Larimer, and Weld. This was down in Littleton, and it took me a long time to find it this morning. It’s amazing how 50 miles to the south of where I usually work feels like being in a whole different world. My stomach was tied in knots over this one, not knowing the market in this neighborhood as well. But I know the listing agent, and this was the fourth time I’ve opened a house by this particular remodeler, so I had a few tendrils of familiarity to comfort me.

The house was a year younger than my mid-century brick ranch, but the vibe inside was totally different. It more reminded me of the house where I lived in Martin Acres in Boulder, the summer I moved out of the dorms at CU. It had seen a lot of renters, and not all of them were interested in treating it like a home instead of just a shelter. But the remodeler had done his usual good work, and it was ready for a family to love it.

The smell of fresh paint and urethane was a bit intoxicating, so I opened the doors when I could. But it was brutally sunny and in the upper 90s outside, so I kept having to close it back up more often than not, and wait for the not-new air conditioner to do its job. The air vents were in the floor, so when prospective buyers weren’t looking, I would go lean against the windowsill and let the weak draft of cold air blow up my skirt. I tried to be discreet, not creepy. I don’t *think* they noticed.