Of House Hunting and Tindr

By Jillian Owens 

 

“I am adulting so hard right now,” I said as I signed my first ever written offer on what I hoped would be first ever home with a flourish. Pint glasses clinked as my realtor, my pal Erin, and I hoped for the best.

I’ve been a die-hard renter for years. From the early days of roommates, to the less-early days of attempted romantic habitation, to the current days of living a life of blissful solitude (plus Douglas the dachshund), home ownership was always a distant goal, and one I didn’t think of often.

Fall in love. Maintain said love. Build home together with person for whom you feel aforementioned love. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only woman who was raised on this idea. Buying and maintaining my first house solo wasn’t part of my girlhood fantasies, but there I was. I wanted my own house. I wanted to paint it and plant a garden and build equity and all that stuff my coupled friends talk about. And if I kept waiting for “the one” I could easily see myself living in the same dodgy apartment forever.

“Don’t worry. House hunting is like dating,” a friend and former real estate agent explained.

“Oh God. I hope not.”

He was right.

My friends have become experts at Cumberbatching out exes.

 

The qualities I’m looking for in my first home are almost exactly the same as those I value in the opposite sex. I’m looking for character, comfort, integrity, and style. I don’t want a fixer-upper, and wherever I choose to live needs to be welcoming to my friends and my silly dog. While a human being is (hopefully) physically incapable of having a fireplace or screened-in porch affixed to them, there are a lot of similarities.

I was surprised at how much I enjoyed house hunting, and how good I was at quickly dismissing what I didn’t want.

“I hate add-ons.”

“This place is obviously haunted.”

“There’s a hoarder next door.”

“I feel like I might get stabbed here.”

Oh hell no.

 

While I tend to be iffy, indecisive, and overly prone to compromise in other areas in life, I’m a badass at making definite choices in real estate. There are no mehs or maybes. I’m brutally honest with myself about what I can or can’t deal with. There’s never been a moment of, “Sure the inside is awful, but the exterior is just perfect.” I’m not here to flip or renovate.

The original house I put an offer in on fell through. It needed more work than initially thought that neither the seller nor I wanted to pay for. I was bummed. I liked it. I really liked it. I had a good feeling about this one. Little did I know all the problems that existed beneath the surface.

Oh my God. It’s just like dating.

“It always happens the same way,” my friend said. “I’ve had clients break into tears when a house didn’t go through. That’s one of the reasons I don’t do that anymore. But they always found another house – a better house that made them forget all about the one before.”

“But what if that house falls through too? What if the next five houses seem like the one and they all have termites?” I asked, still slightly despondent.

“Then it’ll be the sixth one. It always happens that way. You’ll find your house.”

My realtor sent me a few listings, none of which seemed promising.

Except one.

In the initial viewing, my first thought was, “I might live here. And if everything in my life has lead me to this place that makes me so completely happy in every way, I’m okay with that.”

The tingling sensation of the possibility of having something that was exactly what I wanted at my fingertips that was totally attainable and would very likely end up working out was a new one for me.

The other night I commandeered a male friend’s Tindr account (with permission, of course). I’m not an online dater, and hadn’t experienced this platform before. My first observation was that the app should be renamed, “Pouty Girls Sitting Alone In Cars”. My second thought as I swiped left on yet another duckface was, This feels familiar.

I’ve viewed what feels like countless houses over the past few months. Right now I think I’ve found the one. It could all fall apart at any point, and I’m prepared to deal with that. But I’m happy I haven’t settled for a pretty façade or jumped to quickly into a bad choice.

Perhaps I’m finally learning how to swipe left.

 

Jillian Owens is a writer, marketer, designer, and eco-fashion advocate. When she’s not gallivanting about, she’s busy refashioning ugly thrift store duds into fashionable frocks at ReFashionista.net or creating compelling content for the clients of Riggs Partners, where she works as a digital marketing strategist. She also reviews local theater productions for Jasper Magazine and Onstage Columbia, and is a contributor for The Good Life Blog and The Free Times. Any comments, questions or crude remarks can be directed to [email protected].