My big moment has come. It’s time to look for an apartment. Alone. A year ago, I lost my job and my fiancé within the same few weeks. I worked every job I could get my hands on in order to stay afloat and put money aside to move when the lease ended. During that shit storm of transcription jobs, freelance articles, Ubering and a few harrowing holiday shifts in retail on top of my regular Monday-through-Friday gig, I learned that I can basically handle anything.
Just like there are five stages of grief, there were eight stages of my apartment hunt.
1. The Middle-of-the-Night Panic
This begins about four months before my lease is up, increasing in frequency the closer I get. It’s generally accompanied by a cold sweat and an immediate steamroller of crushing thought patterns including, but not limited to, “I am never going to find a place, and it’s because I was mean to that kid I used to tutor. What if I have to give up my dog? My parents probably actually hate me. I am going to be alone forever because I failed to get married in my 20s, and now I am never going to find a place.”
I am never going to find a place, and it’s because I was mean to that kid I used to tutor. What if I have to give up my dog? My parents probably actually hate me.
2. The Actual Looking
I’m on Room8, Roomster, Zillow, Craigslist and ForRent every morning for my first 1.5 hours of commuting. I have the energy and the data only for Craigslist on the return 1.5 hours.
My interior monologue while scrolling is something like “No, no, no, no, no, are you serious? No. Oh my God, what? How that’s out of my price range? [Gasp] Maybe? Oh, no pets. OK, well, fine. No, no, no, no.” And so on. Every morning. For more than an hour. There’s not enough coffee on this earth.
3. Daydreaming about What Are Clearly Scams
I think to myself, “The place goes for $800 a month, is in a gated community, and they don’t require a deposit? Great! Maybe it’s secretly a kindly old millionaire who just wants to see his community prosper because someone once gave him a leg up. That happens in real life, right?”
I consider giving up my rights to the basics of a home. One place is within my budget, not too far from my friend’s neighborhood—and look! The owner has even listed that they’ll consider putting in a kitchen for the new tenant! Then I remember that I’m a writer and that if I want to eat, I have to cook budget-conscious meals, or I just won’t eat. So that’s out.
The place goes for $800 a month, is in a gated community, and they don’t require a deposit? Great! Maybe it’s secretly a kindly old millionaire who just wants to see his community prosper because someone once gave him a leg up. That happens in real life, right?
4. Facebook and Existential Crises
I join four housing-related Facebook groups. One girl is looking for a socially conscious, quiet roommate and offers up “dog friendly” in the title. I stare at my dog — I’ve been wrestling with myself whenever he isn’t looking at me about what in the ever-loving fuck I am going to do with him if my lease ends and I haven’t found a pet-friendly place. I send the girl a message.
She wants to know what kind of hours I keep, if I’m available Sunday to come see the place and if I think of home as a cave or a sanctuary. I launch into an existential crisis because I realize I’m not sure I know what “home” means. Maybe it’s my mother handing me a cup of strong black coffee, or it’s snow on the Rockies, or it’s Northwest rain in the fall, or it’s the memory of a warm shoulder and crooked fingers that don’t belong to me anymore, but what does it matter? None of those things is here, exactly, but something in my gut keeps whispering, “Stay.” There you go, woman from the Facebook group. Doesn’t that make you want to room with me? She’ll probably hate me for my answer, because everyone hates me. I’m probably just going to live in my Prius with my 75-pound pit mix.
I don’t ever respond to the girl on Facebook. I open and close the Facebook messaging app so much that I kill my phone’s battery.
She’ll probably hate me for my answer, because everyone hates me. I’m probably just going to live in my Prius with my 75-pound pit mix.
5. A Walk-Through
Something appears that’s within my budget. Yes, sure, I can come by. He’ll meet me at 5:45. The walk-through takes a minute, almost exactly. I bring my friends. He says for an extra deposit he won’t mind the dog. I tell the guy thank you, but I’m still looking. I can’t actually tell if I’m projecting or not, but does he look hurt? He looks hurt. Oh God, I’m a monster. In my head, I’m imploring, “Sir, I am so sorry. I will rent from you. Just don’t look at me like that.”
“You’ll find better,” my friends say after the shortest apartment viewing I’ve ever done. But what if that was it? What if I just let the good one get away? What if nothing else turns up?
I repeat this step on another weekend. It’s a young couple. They crack jokes and smile at us and at each other. The studio apartment is quiet. The windows let in the late summer sun. The bathroom is almost the same size as the rest of the apartment, and the closet is going to hurt my already dwindling wardrobe. I am struck by lightning as I begin to imagine my new life here. My dog will sleep on the bed with me in this corner. I’ll hum to myself while I make coffee in the kitchen. And on Wednesdays I will take a bath in the tub with an actual working drain.
The bathroom is almost the same size as the rest of the apartment, and the closet is going to hurt my already dwindling wardrobe. I am struck by lightning as I begin to imagine my new life here.
6. It’s Not Over Yet
I ask for an application. I try not to vomit while I fill it out. I run through all the reasons in my head why the landlords liked me when we met: “They want me to live here. I want to live here. That’s usually how these things work, isn’t it?” It’s not, and I know it, but I submit the application anyway.
I submit my credit check. I immediately regret taking out a cash advance to make rent when my now-ex fiancé was unemployed because we were in love, and someday he was going make it—so it’s fine, right? It’s still not fine, but apparently, my credit is just not shit enough, because next I get an email in which they ask if I can come pick up the keys.
7. The Handoff
I meet my new landlords. (Mine. Hear that, universe? I have landlords!) I see them standing next to each other, and I wonder if I’ll ever look that happy standing next to another person. They want to hand me the key, but I walk in, straight to the kitchen counter, and pick it up, holding it so tightly in my hand that I can feel its teeth against my palm. “So much for so little”— the war cry of everyone looking for a home in the Bay.
I spend the next week staring at the key, touching it to make sure it’s there. I obsessively refresh my email to make sure no one is going to retract the offer. The key stays on my key ring, and no one backs out.
“So much for so little” — the war cry of everyone looking for a home in the Bay.
8. Wait, what?
It wasn’t supposed to be this simple. Not after a year of scrapping and saving and paying things down and staring my dog in the face on the kitchen floor while whispering at an erratic pace, “We are going to get through this.” Not after I pitched my editor a three-parter on my apartment hunt, and we both confidently expected the process to span those articles (and probably more).
I was expecting a battle. I was expecting slammed doors and angry property managers and—I don’t know—a few Disney villains, because moving on was never supposed to be this simple. But here I am with a key in my hands and a new front door.
I feel a vague emptiness, realizing that my hunt is over before it began. But in 12 months the frantic fanfare will begin again, because here’s the kicker: I’m on a short-term lease with no renewal.
I’m not worried. Twelve months ago, I had no idea where I was going, so who’s to say that in another 12 I can’t decide where I’ll stay? At least I know I’ve got a solid eight months before the middle-of-the-night panicking starts again.
Someone send coffee. Your girl is gonna need it.
