While we began looking at homes in Stamford, my wife Barbara channeled all her real estate expertise into selling our condo townhouse in Westchester.
This entailed two major steps:
1. Renting an apartment in a storage facility for about half our stuff.
2. Redecorating our house so that it looked nicer than it ever had in the 25 years we’d been living there.
But, no, we were committed. Or perhaps, somebody should have committed us.
Showings began, during which my daughter Casey and I had to evacuate the premises along with our dog. Casey would sit in her car in the parking lot with her laptop, just barely in range of our wi-fi. I would walk the dog for a much longer time than he actually cared to be outside, and yet always managed to return while the people were still in our home making snide comments about the decor.
Every once in awhile, we’d drop another box or two off at the storage place. We’d notice, as we walked down hallways that looked like a cross between Alcatraz and the steerage section of an ocean liner, that people had gone through great pains to secure their units with all manner of locks and bolts. On the other hand, we had used what had been the lock on Barb’s locker at the health club.
Our thought was this: If something gets stolen, it’s less to move. Besides, it was obvious that there was nothing in there we really needed.
And then Barb and I looked around the house at all the stuff we hadn’t put into storage; all the stuff that we would now have to pack up; all the stuff that we also didn’t really need. And then we looked at each other and said, in unison, “Holy s**t–now we have to go through with this!”
See you soon.